Huge monoliths flank the sky, and a thunderous bass grapples the unstable ground. There is murmuring, swarms of footmen scattered and splattered across the plain, where men meet and shake hands with swords.
We’ve been here before, someone says. It is ominous; it is inevitable. But this time, we are fading. We have faded. But she disagrees, and above the whirling sound of wind, she exclaims, “the solitude is solid; so we will always have shape. We will always have form.”
The air is cold and sterile, and I’m shaking uncontrollably. The movement is slow but continuous, undisturbed by gravity and resistance. By looking, I feel compelled to shift to my right, to the edge and the fall. What is the point? The chasm looks so warm and chaste, and as I hold out my hand, the liquid flows, gushing down in a way my blood has ceased doing.
But we all bleed, she says, we all bleed the same, and when we fall, arms eagle-spread, bones bracing the jagged ends between sky and hell — what will remain, but streaks of fear elongated across the void in sickly hues.
We are faded; fated to step back to the background as we lose shape. Our unnatural children take shape, yes, unsmiling, building up to greater densities. Where do we go?
Indeed, the corners of existence await, if it could be called existence. We see it between the barrel and the eye, when we could step over the void, and see, if only for a second, the thing below us, binding us, shaken up to sift out the creatures we fear. And now everything is awash; I am abstracted and extracted — and if you could, lend out a hand, and be taken.
This is not a battle, but afterwards, when souls pass through and ghosts remain.
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