“Wise men told him his simple fancies were inane and childish, and even more absurd because their actors persist in fancying them full of meaning and purpose as the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from something back to nothing again, neither heeding nor knowing the wishes or existence of the minds that flicker for a second now and then in the darkness.”
· Southern Gentleman
· Disorganized Creative Hedonist
· Vain Passive/Aggressive Prick
· Criminal Mind
· A Craftsman in Ash, Blood, and Bone
The earth moved beneath his feet. Blades of grass split like the hide upon the great Balrog's back, a gravestone on an incline marking its armored head. In the moonlight, a pale hand dug for freedom between the tips of his shoes, black soil outlining its bloodless fingernails.
A distinct smell of petrichor and the ions on the air ( from a very recent lightning storm ) crawled along his skin under a wrinkled broadcloth shirt covered in ashen handprints. The entire gray-skinned arm finally struggled from its burial prison. Turning fresh dirt through its palm and flailing for freedom beside his shin. The beautiful perfume of rain soaked dirt dispersed, leaving no deodorant for the taint of carrion on the breeze.
Striding away he sung to lowly; mostly to himself. The words of a folk song coming intermittently between soft melodic whistles. "O, Death, won't you spare me over 'til another year? Well, what is this that I can't see with icy cold hands takin' hold of me. Well, I am Death, none can excel. I'll open the door to Heaven or Hell."
Something behind him hissed and choked wetly between the last verse of the self-indulgent chorus. It hacked up a wad of mud and mucus. He paused in thoughtful reflection as blood dripped from the leftovers of a fleshy spell component in his hand. The disembodied heart beat twice, continuing to fire the signals of life. Absently, he threw it into the dark. It squelched against a nearby crypt's wall. He continued to walk towards an idling car on the Cemetery Rue.
"Shamble along a little faster and get yourself into the trunk won't you, Darlin'?" The lean figure accepted a hand towel from the Driver who exited the car-for-hire to open his door. "We have a schedule to keep."