My dream is simple: to paint everything red or gray.
No blacks or whites, no greens or browns, simply completely gray or completely red.
A mix would not do. If they were to mix, the worlds would vaporize and the stars would fade, and the universe would become nothing but 0s and 1s.
However, once the flower comes to save us, the world will split red and gray. Regardless how you paint this mess, the flower will rebuilt the world with their own reds or grays. In this newly painted world, perhaps the black flower that should of bloomed long ago would sprout out of the core of the Earth and split the world in half, one side being fully red and the other being fully gray by the flower's choice.
Huge and towering, having being dormant for millions of years as it just grew, crouching inside the core and restricting it's phenomenal power. Its roots would act as the unification of the split and bridge from one color to the next, and there would be nothing but its radiant white goo beaming at to stop the ants - you lots - from traveling.
We wouldn't need the sun, just the elongated strings that droop down from each of its "petals," and the stare of the flower's five eyes upon this sickening place. It would be able to keep us from dying in the cold, allow us to continue living, but would simply require three things from us:
Tears.
Pain.
Torture.
The joy in its eyes will brighten every time we continue to give it what wants, and will wrap us with a mixture of its wilted petals and tears to show us how proud it is of the accomplishment as we burn and decay in its warm and loving heat.
We would finally live in a fun world, always on edge. You'd never know when you were to breathe your last breath, die a virgin, or even eat without fear of it being poisoned. There would be no more senseless arguments over a few words, "hackers," or a boring lifestyle. They are going to die and become one with the plant until it finally opens a mouth it will grow when given enough, the most comforting death one can have.
Suddenly the ooze coming from it will become pure black, and the stem will become oil. The mouth of it will spill lava whenever it opens, and its five eyes would begin streaming the tears we had given it. The gap would become an ocean, and depending on how many of us were left, we would continue to feed it. It will talk anytime we make it angry, for no kindness should come from this world.
None of that nonsense should last at this point. There will be no such thing as compassion or comfort. It will only be about survival, about betraying and giving pain to everyone that wasn't your kin. People will finally learn their place as a pitiful species and learn to listen for once,
But then, there will be you.
You won't listen to the rules. You won't care either. All you see in this is nothing but remorse and regret, and you'll wish for it all to be like before the world became gray and red. You'll just blame it on the flower, but its not its fault.
We made it, after all.