The cycle previously mentioned is no more. The dreams have ended, and I have begun to live.
There will be no updates for a VERY long time.
In The PitOn the scanners the pinging dot of the forward probe was getting nearer to the beacon's source. The Judge tapped his wrist impatiently, stared back at the block-wide hole before him for a few minutes before switching over to the HQ feed. Gotta be some punk on whose spine he could better use his time. The ancient megaplex groaningly released its jealously guarded secret to the clanks and whirs of the Excadroids, their arachnoid hydraulics effortlessly hurling bus-sized chunks of pre-collapse concrete and rebar into the curiously empty streets behind. The scanner made a loud whooping noise, indicating paydirt. With a scowl, Dredd dropped down into the pit and strode forward.In The Pit by Unspeakable-Hastur
Half-submerged in rubble was something that failed to trigger the visor's archive recognition software, but recalled earlier versions of the sulphur mine droids from the area's forgotten industrial past, after the region became uninhabitable but before its incorporation into Megacity One. The burnished-steel facsimil
Form poem 1White the marbled torso, limbless, headless, flawless.Form poem 1 by Unspeakable-Hastur
The outer son, frantic and incandescent.
'Time is the fire in which we burn', to wit: 'Not even your bones the
end of time will see, since time chose of nothing it to make.'
I grieve for human warmth and the life of the living.
Uppsala... Thing of all Swedes...
In the nameless chamber, I return to the marble.
Not even an echo will survive.
Ecclesiastes 1:8-10Ecclesiastes 1:8-10 (There are No Rules)Ecclesiastes 1:8-10 by Unspeakable-Hastur
The tiles windowgossip air-filled sunrays through their precious grime, 'cause you ought to, through, see, see how he's watching you, and he bled for you and me and aren't you a naughty boy? (Not yet.)
Suntime, silly wet, waiting with a half-smile, yes we know it's hot out and genesis is (never) red, but she's sitting right across from me and I hate acrostic mysteries, (never) mention rosaries, we're only in this building 'cause I think that it's a Saturday and Sunday wasn't Holy Day, remember back to Living Day? His floating under-capit' 'T' lacks some of the severity I've come to learn since I was three; STOP. BREATHE. Look around.
Her head is not a full eclipse, a sonnet through her tendonwrists, better than the thumping, nails clicking in the wood, how if we only understood they'd come between our lines and say 'No riverrun for you.' STOP. ENOUGH.
Slick, but not smooth, I'll wonder where she is, tracing fingerworlds in my unpleasant p