neptuniankraken
The roots of his bones plunged into the dark tumble of the earth and he felt himself go limp with complete peace. His mind dissolved through the cracks in the cobblestones of his head, dripping into the foliage growing hungry from within him.
The cyclopean structure jutted out of the swirling nether that hung over the landscape like a bloodied rag. Atop it, cultists danced and reveled over the corpses of their sacrifices that hung from intestinal chains.
It was woven into the flesh of his skin, a pulsing black knot of alien flesh that spread out across his body in crawling web. God knows what wound its way through those rotting subway tunnels, but it burned and he had a mad desire to drag his nails through the throbbing veins and let release flow.
However, the mushroom lips choked and coughed, could these shabby walking sticks carry on their own path, with no hand to guide them, no path for them to follow. They were simply forgotten kindling, drifiting.
The poster was bold and blatant in both its image and its placement, as it stuck defiantly to the wall just next to the entrance to the General Assembly. Yet it was its statement that was truly revolutionary. The white lettering underneath the raised fist with an eye jutting from its wrist shouted "Psychics, Rise Up!" in an invitation to a rebellion of the mind.
He wondered and considered and pondered every single slight intricacy of the titanic universal machine that ground away all around him. Of all the questions that wound their way around his brain, the one that constricted him with the most force was whether he was simply an observer to the whole thing, or an active part?
Its not exactly a specific way of doings things but I find that that makes me enjoy it no less. You see the secret to living is a dying of sorts, a casting off into the ocean and a drowning in its depths. If you simply abandon all rhyme and reason and ramifications life makes a lot more sense.
The cheap tattered scarf was lifted by the winds and tossed about between the shaking trees, its threads catching on outstretched wooden fingers who pulled and unraveled them. Finally it found itself caught on one massive arm, were remained fluttering and ineffective.
The tables did not turn, rather they flipped and fell across the room, dashing both themselves and the cliche into a swirling multitude of useless fragments. The boy that had caused their shattering looked upon his handiwork with a terrible innocence.
He sat against the bench. No, sat was the wrong word. He pressed against it, clung to it, melded the cloth of his shirt and the skin of his back to the granulated wood in a desperate attempt to hold on, to resist what was pulling him away. He sat on the bench with the same quiet, meaningless desperation a victim of a tar and feathering sits on his rail with.
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