No one but The Owner of All Infernal Names can faithfully claim to know if He is pleased more by the total aggregate of suffering distributed across all of His creation, or whether He is more circumspect and discerning in His pleasure taking, savouring discreet yet increasingly potent, increasingly more complex parcels of sophisticated and intimate misery. Whether it is a matter of quantity over quality, the enormity of the marketplace or the specialisation of product groups and services within that marketplace, or a depraved combination of both, no human mind can determine, or perhaps ever comprehend.
What the Impartial Observer can record with a tremendous amount of confidence is that since the protean cycles of this universe were spun-up and set loose, the urge of all that which moves and interacts has consulted the future with a stubborn enthusiasm, cascading naturally forward, spilling out from the simplest and lightest towards the heaviest and most complicated. It is a contract, whether they know it and like it or not, to which all contingent things are hopelessly but faithfully dedicated, for Creation has but one state of employment conferred to all but the Creator Himself. It is an industry that has birthed—and will continue to birth—increasingly fantastic product lines and services whose central ambition is wholly devoted to producing even more fantastic products and services; generations stacked one on top of the other with each new contrivance—or variation on an existing contrivance—more adept, more skilled and more talented than the last at experiencing and distributing suffering.
And how could it not be?
How could any other arrangement be possible in this world?
Before there was light there was, after all, only darkness. Before there was light there was only what the Greek poet Hesiod called the “yawning nothingness,” and from within this perfect eclipse the uncaused First Cause moved, constructively interfering with a portion of that eternal void which existed before space and time were named with a temperature. This unending, infinite bleakness—a blackness that the authors of the Vedas collectively identified as a type of swirling chaos, a darkness concealed in darkness—is the Creator’s ancestral home. It is where He resides, within what human minds can only comprehend as the deepest of detestable disorders.
That, to Him, is home.
He—the Creator—did not move on the darkness, vanquishing it and by doing so annihilating His supernal hearth, His residence, rather this universe was fashioned from within and by the material that had never known a morning. Darkness is the parent, the cinderblock, the mortar, and the paint. From this shadow-material colours were shaped and this universe was stretched out, but it will forever be of its parent, dependent and loyal to the end.
The light man and beast alike see is only fleeting. It is a visitor, like temperature and time, which answers to an antipodal, cardinal realm where the Creator dwells: the immortal, unremitting darkness. Darkness preceded the light. Darkness is the source of what men consider the All. From darkness the All came, diseased and corrupted from before the beginning, and to the darkness all things will one day return.
 Rig Veda, Mandala 10, hymn CXXIX, Nasadiya Sukta