Dark. Darkdarkdarkdarkdark. Cold. Wind, like knives, like biting wet mouths, like circular teeth-filled suckers on deep sea grotesques—grabbing, biting, encircling, hideous and slithy—draws me down, down, down. Street, walking, the building in front of me, its lights off yet in the early morning glow of singular streetlamps.

Burning eyes in a brazen reflection, eyes that tell tales, stories of blood and fire and destruction, desecration and death. This is this. The elevator groans beneath even the slight weight, but rises all the same. The doors open and close. Dark, again. You are likely to be eaten by a grue. Quiet.

Open, beginning day. Sunlight, closeted out by venetian blinds, made void by technology's fluorescence. Murmur.

Time passes.

Time passes.

Time passes.

Homeward. Backward.

Sunlight, and dust motes. Swirling like glitter in a test tube, energize now! Now. Fungus, like a three day stubble on an old man newly dead, on pages unread in half a century or more. Can this be beauty? Coughing, with blood and mucus and sweat and phlegm, all the bodily fluids a flesh-wrapped skull can produce. Annals forgotten, deeds unremembered. The world changes, and humanity changes with it.

Homeward. Rest. Rest.

Time passes.

Time passes.

Time passes.

Finis.

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