(The following has been submitted to MicroHorror. It uses 150 words exactly.)
It eats us as waves might besiege the walls of a seaside cliff, dying in explosive towers of foam.
Those pale cliffs block all sky from view, as if titans, resolute, but they are neither undivided nor eternal. Close inspection belies the wounds of watery premonition: droplets slide down cliff chalk, occulted in recesses where lichen oracles grow that know the sea’s power. Grain-by-grain will waves bite stone until the whole bereft cliffside one day sinks into the starving, abyssal floor.
Given aeons, the oceans might boil away to our glutting Sun. After billions of years, a red giant ejects its final signatures into space, leaving only another corpse in the galaxy. Too cold to be visible, it will be consumed by the Void of our galaxy, itself a thing that must feed.
Devouring our unstable cosmos from inside-out, let us wonder: will the Eater of Time ever consume itself?