Thus saith the
unholy forces:
I hate you. I
hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate
you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I
hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate
you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I
hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
The pestilence
unrelentingly barrages and batters my consciousness, numbing the
senses. As the background noise fades, I hear the vile beckoning for
my return to a place that I never wish to traverse willingly. One of
my oldest friends, perhaps family?
In my dreams, I see
its imagined forms: the goathead, wielding a mighty staff, eyes
excised, sightless yet unquestioningly domineering; the sacrificial
pig, eviscerated, flayed, wounds purulent and ever-flowing, suspended
for all to bear witness, an example of the great bestial powers;
finally, the cruel spirit of the mists, mirthfully masochistic, inflicting its wounds to the vital areas in its many-tentacled form, patiently lashing in sequence so as to wage a ceaseless assault on all the souls within its unyielding grasp.
I sense the ominous
approach of the unholy triumvirate as the daylight fades. The storm
approaches and my sanity wavers. I know that these cursed fruits from
those poisonous seeds sown many aeons ago will soon be reaped. The
harvest will be bountiful.
Such is the
eternal struggle. And yet, war is waged by two sides. And my soul, though
resigned to the imminent conflict, will be valiant, will make its
stand. I will not be vanquished, I will not be conquered. My resolve
will prove victorious over these false gods, as it always has. I shall not falter.
