No stopping that which can eternal walk, and by his cunning, even death may be stalked.
A wall of faces, hung on broken tile above the martial drainage, the rust and the bile. Seeking fleeting refuge in a space of death, spending waking hours chasing elusive breath. Popping pills in corners, staving off the noise, tendrils infiltrating, encephalitic voice. Tension subsides to a dreadful calm; all the leaves turn over, as if before a storm.
We hide in smoke. We seek shelter in the shadows. Don't turn away, just follow the symbols leading to the ark. You're leading another: he who follows close across strange eons.
This forest is a graveyard full of thorny stones, bodies washed away, picked to clean, white bones. Equipment failure -- he sits upon his throne. The whiskey and the water give way to the unknown. To go back where we started, to erase the features of our party, like the features of his face . . . Or have we been selected -- is this a fucking game? An alternate dimension? Or is it all the same?
Exhaustion takes hold. We can run no longer, within his grasp. Something inside of me started saying, "Just keep repeating, 'Something inside of me started saying, [. . .]'"