The silent stand aside, screaming. Seas of blood swirl around them in a storm of heat and clamor. Decomposition has many things to tell you, things that are crucial to your well-being, truths you have been seeking for generations. Sometimes you act like you can hear, but it loses all coherence at these moments. Sometimes your minds take the atmospheric gibbering and fit a pattern over it, creating seeming inspiration, giving their shouts the shape of stories.

The dreamer of worlds is in tatters. The empty streets taunt him with their glowing windows and passing cars. Drifts of snow, as in his childhood, lie in filthy, shoulder deep hills, inviting him to rest.

Time comes unhinged.

Incomprehensible, it can only be heard when one is alone, in ones own company or in a wilderness of multitude.
The dead lie in an intractable, unthinkingly inspired restriction. Struggling in their vaults, all their profound horrors unchained. Unearthly endeavours in seething death flight. Their solitary witness walks isolated never-endingly conveyed by long forgotten nightmares, degraded progressively to rouse the ones he doesn’t know he hears.

Drifting on a current of air, cutting in its sudden fear, the persistent liquor moves him in the direction of their resonant insurgency. He can sense something changing beneath his hazy vision. A faltering Graceless Operative Livid Embodiment unleashed in the watery, Ambiguous night air; a sudden fear ruptures the night like a slashed throat.

From the burial places, the lingering, detached sleepers realize: they do not yearn for him, but to endure, their lassitude prevents. Their prevailing shriek into the cold measureless night redoubles; now materializes from resting places living consciousnesses in somnolent outer shells.

He feels the scorching pulsation of blistering flesh and boiling blood.

Dwindling fears come to pass, without doubt, he lives.