The figure looked around. Something had definitely changed. His world, constant spinning motion for as long as he could remember, had now become still. He sniffed the air suspiciously and noticed that it was dryer as well. On all sides there were boundaries where, once, there were infinite possibilities. He called out to his creator, Mr. Munch, but the glass was soundproof. He raised his hands to his face, grabbed his cheeks, and screamed silently, forever trapped inside his gilded frame.
The cosmic fish swims the void. To him, space is tangible. He moves on currents of dark energy, eating entropy and repairing the universe.
The fisherman stands outside reality. He carves a hole through the frozen void, and stabbing his leister through the newly-cut wormhole, spears the fish, removing him from the cosmos.
The fisherman eats well that night, but without the fish, there is not enough dark matter to bind the stars together. The cosmos expands into the void, moving away from itself at an alarming rate. Eventually, it bursts, spewing spacetime hither and tither.