God's Debris by Scott Adams is a philosophical treatise exploring numerous concepts primarily founded upon the idea that God, having nothing left to do, annihilated itself in the Big Bang. For Poetic Noise, I had to write a poem about loneliness that is a response poem. This isn't really a response poem; it's more a response in poem format, because a response poem is usually a la the original work. t3h p03m, 4 j00.
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Not-black black.
Or white.
Space, with a lack thereof
And empty.
So we assume now, at least, and then –
GOD
Here. Extant. To be observed by… who?
So, not here. Consider –
“What? Space…” And nothing.
Alone.
Suddenly –
“I!”
I? Screamed against nothing, to no one.
I!
Black. Consciousness. Not-black. And then –
“I AM!”
Seven trillion, eight hundred forty-seven billion, six hundred-five million, thirty-one thousand, and eight years pass.
“WHY?”
Eternity is realized. Continuity, everlastingness, unendingness… in black. And not-black.
Great, great consciousness, overspanning all, with no sound and no air.
Just God.
“EMPTY.”
Created by who? Unobserved… nothing to observe. Ability?
“SUBSTANCE.”
Stars, planets, belts, Pluto, mountains, aurora borealis, magnetism, light-over-dark.
“MAN.”
Light, trees, water, air, sound, smell, taste, thought, and breath! Laughter, music! Death, birth!
Take pleasure in talking, etc. Understanding, though… was absent.
“CHRIST” was just God. Self to self, speaking. Then dead. Alone.
Four billion, five hundred-four million, three hundred seventy-three thousand, nine hundred, and six years pass.
“NOT MAN.”
Empty, though not-black. Again. Man. Nine billion years. Man. Nine billion years. Stars go out. Empty. Black, not-black. Gone again.
Boredom and confusion. Not understanding. Consciousness. Eternity, alone.
Curiosity.
“NOT I!”
Through the universe. Death, life, light, dark, water, air, earth, fire, strewn across it all. Godless, all-God.
Destroyed. Created. Gone. Here.
Conscious.
And we are God’s debris.
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Carpe Diem Ad Muertum
Sieze the day, to the death. There is no potential that shall be passed by, there is no piece of glory to fall by the wayside, there is no soul to left unsaved by the brilliance of language. As writers, we are gods.
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Mr. Blackbird Lore Community Member 
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I don't know why, but the numbers were an enticing addition, maybe because it contrasted the most with the one-word sentences. Hmm...
Also, the repetition of "black" and "not-black" stood out. The description of "not-black" in itself is a nice point to consider--I can almost grasp what it means, but not quite; it seems complex even though it's just two words (or one composite word, I suppose). Requires more thinking...
*puts fingers on temple and tilts head*...