• Seething, the city sweats its toxicity onto the lonely figures that shuffle below it in torturous torpor, never ceasing in their endless struggle, their conflict, a lame attempt at resisting that which never ceases, never ends, cannot die.
    One never suspects the end of the world to come about so abruptly, but here it is, the very dark and unexpected end has crept up upon the dimly lit souls, moths to the flame, they cry out, rise against the fallen! Never before has one dared, no, not even considered the possibility of turning the tide, swept out, carried beyond the veil into madness.
    We call them then, in a moment of weakness, never remembering why it is we do the things we claim to bring us respite. In hindsight the end was plain, clear, crystal in its meaning. To cancel, recall, destroy, cleanse the mistake which became an infection. A hematoxin, poison of the flesh, hunger calls and flesh calls to flesh. Never remember or recall to begin, to end, to fall.
    Never rise again. Never call out. A shambling prison of the flesh, the shell, this mortal coil and none remain but few to be the catalyst.