It is as if the yawning gates of hell are creaking open, the would-be heat of the fireball in the sky is actually the hearty, hearthy, burning furnace. The cracked and peeling horse drawn carriage hauls me through winding deserted riverbeds, all life now parched, starched, dried, devoid of any moisture, meandering towards a desolate sandscape of culture, caricature of an iconic box-like vulture, ravens perching offensively on the fence.
The carriage rattles over mountainous, crumbling, tumbling terrain, mumbling mind slowly caves away, drying unripening sensation, skeleton bones acting as suspension cessation, escalating the shocking rocking of near-damnation cremation. Waiting in line, a parallel symmetrical insanity in diametrically opposed destinations. Driver collects each soul nonchalantly, disparately, randomly on a predictive, unproductive trail of thought, oxygen being the journey’s unfair fare.
Vaccumed eyeballs bore into the back of my skull as mine own scorch the dark, dying, decaying fibrous matter ahead, eyes smell burning hair as I clatter mutton dressed as rosemary scented lamb tied with thread. Rosary beads shatter against the prayer mat. The freezing warm wind would be welcome relief from the turmoil of the hellish temperature, instead a typhoon of dust is thrown into my life line of insightful blind sight.
And the site is marked on a mind map, branded into my subconsciousness as dread spills from my too conscious mind, snapped. The carriage propels me forward upon volcanic ash, fertility of the soot has also been evacuated, depleted, hashed as the Driver negotiates unforeseen scenes, sheer drops and obstructive obstacles obstructing, tackling, shackling my ankles to the assault course of faith untapped and suddenly we scree eee eee eee eee ch to a halt, blaspheming inauthentic beings pale and cold and mean.
Destination nears. Imminent inanimate dismissal has me salivating for salvation, and so, the daily descent into the moons of Phibia commence. Backwards we travel through a giant capsule, carriage already smashed, automatic transparent shields, shaking as I glide along dark sullen paths of molten smelted smack and attack. The capsule whistles and hums, silent and wondrous, waiting, ignoring the hard shoulder, interjectory refectory, waiting, anticipating, contemplating, asunder.
Thunder. Lightning, electricity, sparks flow. Weeping willows wallow as we whale our way through the asphalt maze, fault less at the edge of a crazy black haze.
Tipping point, the point of no return. The cyan sky clutches the subverted, re-inserted rapidly angered sun, perhaps the only element smiling against the backdrop of the four seasons. Leaning against cold glass, head raddled with specific mass confusion, another minute beckons me to breathe the ferocious silence of another muted day. Outlying, outgrowing, outgrabing branches shunt the capsule, but not quite strengthened or precisely positioned for prevention of another monotonous relapsing mistake.
We gain speed and momentum and velocity, witnessing atrocity hardly lightening the oppressive stilling sway. Suffocating each and every form of life penetrating the grey, cold pores of incandescent red and blue. It’s like black and white manga, wasted.
Innabit fam! The boys have come to play.