|The Shape of Things to Come|
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A New Sight Of An Old Spot
After I passed out, my mind was gone. My whole existance was a cosmic dance, cosmic dance of death, decay and violent birth. The horrifying images of what was to come troubled me. I laid on the floor in a fever, mad, lost in the realm of insanity.
For the first time in my entire life I could see clearly. And I saw only darkness before me. I moaned and crawled in the corner of the cell I was thrown in.
Barely understanding what I was doing, I found a small piece of coal on the floor and began to write on the walls, whispering...
"At the end of time... when the many become one..."
My mind was still being consumed by the darkness, lost in the labirynth of forbidding knowledge, but I kept writing, as in a dream, not understanding what I was saying or seeing.
"The last storm shall gather its angry winds..."
I was not in the cell, I was in an infinite vortex of shadow, flowing around me like smoke. I was gasping for air and dying without it, shadowy smoke filling my lungs.
"...to destroy a land already dying..."
I whispered the last words, as the piece of coal fell from my hands on the floor, as did I in a mere moment, the very existance fading before my eyes.