Otherside Beast: You want to… be welcomed? No, I thought not… where is this? It is the realm beyond… no, not merely some faraway land where one does not usually go… it is…
Quite more subtle than that… you see, this widespread perception that there is a dual state to existence… does not, exactly, match reality. I mean, when has it ever?
This is the realm of… not quite the dead, and yet it is where dreams have died… not exactly where anyone is alive, either, and yet there is a speck, as usual, in rot.
It is where… all those thoughts just go to grow upon themselves… I mean, not exactly all, and yet… did it never seem wasteful that with so much neural activity…
It all, merely… disappears? Well, it kind of does, but sort of does not… you know, beyond singularities? This is not in outer space, though… for that is not…
Exactly… where it originated from, is it? Well, never mind my ramblings for now… see for yourself, a world where one can only degrade, where all is but lost…
Does this… not, still, have an interesting atmosphere, though? I mean, for a place where there is only worse… it can, at least, still utter something… no?
Frog: Yes, yes… you see correctly, and you happen to hear as such, as well… I am a, uh, Anura, which is common parlance for ‘frog’, verily… and I happen to be chilling.
Chilling, as in, becoming cold… it is, is it not? I mean, I do not pretend to assume that these kind of… environs… should be warm, and cuddly, or so… nay.
Then, though, I wonder… do they, as yet, not still exist? Are they not alive? Does life not mean, maybe… a bit of heat? Not even as much as that abode where oni are.
I mean, that is not asking for much, is it? Or is the only way to move about here to shapeshift, perhaps? Could not be so necessary, surely… why would that be so?
If it was, though… I wonder, what would practically gather the most heat? To be as tiny as an atom, perhaps, or as gigantic as that dragon? Also, depends on metabolism.
Ah, what am I rambling about… do not let me occupy the entirety of your brain, I am eccentric enough as it is, regardless of mythological status…
Oh… you thought I lived in a well, did you? I mean, I could, if I fell and could not get out, but then it will be even colder, and… do not think anyone would visit.
Gothic statue: Ha… have you come, have you finally surrendered to inevitability? Of what, you wonder? Chaos… you assumed I spoke not, but it is…
This very random nature of the universe, this unfettered chaos, that allows me, along with many objects and elements, to voice thoughts of concepts, and woes…
Whether anyone listens… you might as of now, but within a few seconds, even… memory is so evanescent. You might even forget that I can communicate… for visuals…
Well, an animated character is certainly to impress upon the mind more so… and I, a mere status, so static, immovable, somber… nobody cares, except perhaps…
For a few seconds, yes? Not even sure you care, at all, for any of this… but, look around you… regardless of whether, or not, they are animated… they exist.
Technically, every life that ever existed… and every object, or element, is in some state of existence. For some… it is like a dimmed candle, only in hushed whispers.
For others, you are wondering? Well… at times chaos does reverberate, and the singularity falls upon… not merely geography. Ultimately… does anything matter?
Hued mushroom: I am… so alone… I know I am supposedly connected to some vast, underground network, but… I am, ultimately, still alone here, regardless… is it forever?
Never is anything certain… does any of this matter, though? I suppose, as long as one can survive alone, whether plant, animal, or… in between… does it matter?
If I was to attempt to be logical about this, though, as much as a mushroom can be… does one not normally partner just in case of adversity? In other words…
It is not merely to alleviate some vague feeling of loneliness, is it? Or, at least, the latter seems to be a byproduct of the functional reason… no? Kind of like rot.
Rot… a sign of death, is it? While alive? Due to… fungi? Does this mean… I am half dead? How, though, if I can reason all this?! How, I beseech you…
Ultimately… does anything matter? Some of us are born, mature, and fade within… a mere day. Do concepts matter when reality is as such? Does anything matter?
For now, perhaps… I shall just observe that group of mushrooms over there, perhaps with a bit of envy, but with the knowledge that in the end all of us fade away…
Oval mushrooms: Oh, yes, we may have been born altogether, like so… but was that not inevitable? If there is a single spore, there is likely to be more… and that does not just rhyme.
I mean… sure, we understand that one can be destined to a life of solitude… we can sense the one over there, you know… but, what difference does it make ultimately?
At times our… attachees annoy us, you know… so, it is not, as if, it is plain sailing… we can often absorb more nutrients for ourselves, though… I suppose…
It is, still, give and take, is it not? For individuals, I assume… there is a sense of individuality? I suppose, even if they are, fundamentally, connected, beneath…
Are we thinking too much? We seem to have that propensity… and, then, we merely fade away… as if thinking was ever a matter of import, when in reality it seems…
I mean, seriously, are we even really communicating right now? Could we not be merely clockwork, just as a rock is to water? Why do thinking and communication even exist?
I think… or, perhaps, I should really not… at least… I mean… is it not just some evanescent dream, after all? It matters so little… so little…
Multiple mushrooms: We… for we are all… we are so glad you are here, you know? Why, if you were not here… where would you be? In some gutter, perhaps? It is, also, where fungi live…
What does any of this mean for you, though? Objects that are given life? Insanity manifest? What, you reckon we mushrooms can never go insane, do you? Why, we are…
The very physical symbolism of such, one might say… in a sense, for why would one choose to be both an animal and a plant? To have both consciousnesses… is where…
Madness may lie… you see, we can rationalize like you do, although still never indicate it, not even as most animals do… besides this interaction as of now…
We can understand each other because… well, nobody ever said that madness is only reserved for one species… but, really, what is it? Merely an existential fear?
Perhaps? In some circumstances… in others, a mismatch between multiple panes of reality… the differences between animals, plans, and fungi in between; we, ourselves.
Why, did you reckon all was fine? That life is just the norm, and everlasting damnation a mere blip on the radar? Why, the rot we spread… is but what is real. Life’s…
Insect Beast: Do you… feel that? The smell of… annihilation, you know? It is in the air… it hovers, it cowers, it oppresses. That is where all negativity comes from. Tales…
Oh… my tail? It is… inveterate. The instinct to destroy. You know it is within the structure of collectives, correct? Corruption being… self and nucleus…
Attempting to survive the onslaught.. it is all there is, do you not know? If one has such misfortune… rest destroy. Just as my tail strikes down anyone who closes in.
Is that not a perfect metaphor for the rage outside? The insanity full to the brim with soul-destroying, world-shatterers. It also all justified, for justice exists not.
You might be wondering what I am doing here, or even who I am, besides being who you see… but, a better question would be, do you not fear? Do you not tremble, shake?
What difference does numbness make…? Reality destroys the self no matter what… do you assist in your own annihilation? Might you even look forward to the nothingness?
One might say… it is tiring, for it is very much so… but do others tire? Do others’ taste for blood ever sate? Do their minds ever quieten? Being left alone, no…
Mosquito: Oh, do not be afraid, I shall not bite… exactly at this moment… but, tell me, what is your impression of… our existence? The real vampires… out of necessity…
No, really… what, you think we do this just because we are specifically obsessed with this substance, and nothing else? Or, that we merely desire to create havoc?
Do you not realize how imprisoned everyone is to… existence? Nitrogen does not choose to be nitrogen… and so it is with life, mostly. Why, did you choose to be born?
If you had a choice, honestly… would you? Would you willingly exist in some chaotic, oft war-ravaged world full of microscopic assassins? That is besides all others…
Rationally, few would… I suspect. Dark matter, though… it failed. Some might think of the universe as clockwork… but life shows that it is not, exactly…
It is in most affairs… but not some, particularly those where suffering just occurs. Life is cruel for every living creature, and an inorganic universe is preferable…
In this land of… ennui… what else could one do except wait until the music finishes? Does it, though, or is one merely unable to hear it…? That which is a symbol…
Sphinx: Hm… you materialized out of nowhere, did you? I wonder how that is possible… oh, I suppose, you might be thinking, a statue can speak, so why would that not be…
Well, I shall certainly declare… it is much more possible for objects to do so, for at least they have form… but to appear out of nowhere, one must have not had form.
It is, indeed, odd… then. For even the moon is more liable to react conversationally, than it is for atoms to form spontaneously… oh, you are wondering how I know?
Why, I was… in my prime… the emblem of knowledge, and while that may have ebbed away with time, and a… solidified fate… I still retain what is essential…
Problems with memory? No, that is not my issue… you see, knowledge exists in a state of perpetual motion within one’s being… and, well, I do not, exactly, move…
It was quite saddening when it happened… for me, I am sure, and perhaps no one else… but I was frozen in a metallic type of time. With mortals, a serpentine stare…
You are wondering what that last bit implied? Well, yes… despite being encased like so, my consciousness remains… eternally, it so seems… for I exist everlasting…
Wyrm: Why… do you bother me? I have always desired to be merely left alone, but am I? To an ironic extent, I suppose… in the sense that, one is only left to rot lest one…
Well, destruction is something so many desire, do they not? Only those with capability, though… and for wyrms, myself, well… a bit of a conflict here, in the sense…
One can, theoretically, destroy, but is also inevitably destroyed in the process; of course, one can see, that if, indeed, the latter destruction has already initiated…
At the point of which, it is instantiated… well, that is where your collective actually advantages its own destruction, does it not? One would think a negative…
For wyrms, though… for that which lays buries deep within the psyche… it is fear, it is possible inevitability… is it not? Such foolishness… projection, so comic.
You might be wondering, though, how any of that relates to this place, or ourselves? Well… what is the result of certain equations? Whatever happened to antimatter…?
I am… only here until I am not… which is perfectly logical, but logic is far from the lips of lives, from the caress of any rational sensibility… does this matter?
Totem: “That which is but a symbol, of days and nights and all unspoken times, a thimble with a grain of sand, overflowing with grief that ignites; it is not rain that speaks.”
Fantasy plant: “This silent, bereft abode… in whispers, thoughts, and impressions does the theft occur; of sanity, regardless of obsessions; foolish aesthetics, vanity of the absurd.”
Grim beam: “Overseeing all, grim life… in reality, ferrying destruction. Why believe in its contrast, a finality? Why, the seduction of illusions, for aghast in the midst it be.”
Tomb 17: “Do you, verily, not know each breath, each intake of extraneous chemistry, but a step, marching incessantly towards death? The horror of the arching of existence…”
Tomb 18: “That night terror, so regular, and yet extinct? The bearer of reality, verily, for what other mental state illuminates the exact duality of the beginning and end…?”
Tomb 19: “When waking life barely differs from nightmares? When the mind but prepares for the baking of the future? Fiction, fact, intertwined, with only a suture of desperation.”
Clown doll: Oh, you think you found me, do you? Why, I may be at the foot of this tree, but in reality… I am within expectations… I am the fear at the back of random minds…
That nightmarish formula, there? Yes… I am that which unfurls its raw anxieties, but not quite that which denies that obvious… no, I am far too direct to be involved.
I mean, why would anyone even attempt to deny reality, anyway? Do you procrastinate to do so? I suppose, it might indeed affect reality… quantum mechanics, and all…
Does it, though? It never quite functions on the macro scale… myself, on the other hand, I am merely fear manifest… I can, indeed, be anywhere, any time…
Is that not convenient? How else would loads of living beings be afraid at the same time? For afraid one ends up being, inevitably… stuck in existence, and all…
I am certain… you know what I mean. You fear obliteration, do you not? Oblivion… annihilation… one can only procrastinate for so long… is it not insanity-inducing?
This tree? Oh… such meditative creatures, eternal, passive procrastinators, but what do they mean? Why do they strive to be the largest living creatures? A mystery…
Cockroach: I am… the wretch that seeks… beyond all there is. What is there, you reckon? What is anywhere, you wonder? Is it not merely… nothingness? Why would one assume…
From this world of solely pain… why would one assume there is anything positive? It is… so laughable, is it not? All nerves were ever invented for… pain…
Oh, you think you shall just hang onto this vague, excruciating hope, would you? Hope? What an utter fancy… a delusion, or just a spurious illusion? Hope, in face of…
All the hopelessness you confirm within this existence. Hope? You cling to a cliff that has already eroded… all it will ever be. A fantasy, desire just prior oblivion.
Is it not swell, though? Why, it holds you aloft, as if… a bubble in a bath, that bursts as soon as you allow it to do so… and, then, reality… destruction once…
Oblivion… eternal. This is why you keep going around digital archetypes, is it not? Well, my digits… are plenty. but I present the same missive: is it sweet or sour?
Have you not relished the taste of existence’s raw obliteration? Did you not partake of the psyche’s momentary magic? Are you not entertained by reality’s countdown?
Tomb 20: “A variety is what life’s buffet contains, but in reality… secret anxiety is rife, existential angst merely the norm, but is fantasy quintessential to the psyche?”
Tomb 21: “Is war what societies forever adore? Not merely on the collective scale, but from the individual perspective, the crushing of the subjective, brushing all rationality.”
Tomb 22: “What is this, you may wonder? Why, analysis of which prose tears asunder… when reality ensnares the unsuspecting, criticality a norm… what then? Nothing, conform?”
Alien: Oh… I bet you reckon you are so much more beautiful, do you? That you do not merely have a similar structure underneath merely because… of others’ delusions?
For, indeed, this world is built upon such as delusions are made of… a conspiracy of sociological convictions made out of subjective thin air… but the worst thing?
Why, actual reality is sacrificed… for vanity, for that which entrances, life is made to stand before the altar of death, just because psyches are so fragile…
They are interesting to study, though, are they not? To know how sordid this world is due to mortal minds… due to their foibles, their weak exteriors…
My aesthetics are nothing in comparison to the sand castle societies are built upon… and with regards to your probable perception of my apparent malevolence?
Absolutely pales in contrast to the savagery your species has committed! Not only to itself, of course, but every single other thing, or life. Perception is not reality.
By now, I assume… you are merely wondering where, and who we are? Why, the reason ‘destiny’ and ‘doom’ initiate identically, the reason all spout however many messages.
Tormented: Where… am I…? I seem to… have gotten lost… I was, where? No… relations, and then, it seems all context was lost… all references forsaken… life itself…
A diminishment, it was… but, not… nowhere. I am, now… I have no idea where, but crucially… I seem to have… misremembered who I am? How… makes no sense…
All these creatures nearby… I seem to have no idea who they are, either, but… are they not more of an inhabitant than I? Or am I jumping to conclusions again…
Why, I seem to be stuck here… no matter how, or where I try to go, I seem unable to… why? Was the nothingness I faced earlier not enough? I mean, it was metaphorical.
Now, though… is it literal? Well, perhaps not so absolutely, as I can still formulate, communicate possibly these thoughts, apparently… but I am still so lost…
Is there such a thing as nothingness beyond which not even thinking can happen? Is there such an abyss where the inorganic merges with what was once organic? I wonder…
You… can go anywhere? Would you, also… know who you are? Might seem such a basic question to someone whose world has not shattered… but, does that mean mine has…?
Shade: Do you see… out there? There lies the void… which mortals avoid, but it is never successful, is it? How could it ever be so when it surrounds them? As air does…
Are you… from beyond, or before the void? Myself? I… had barely ever begun, but existence is so brutal, is it not? The core… so molten… minds so scrambled…
All of this… is not really as it seems… you might think that is a town, there… but it is as much as this ground, here… gravity might function so, mortally…
Here, though… it matters not. All that does, is… oblivion. What else? One look upwards, one look sideways… universal. If matter was erased from existence… below.
As a matter of fact… why did anything ever come into existence? What does protein even mean? It is all so tiring… why did I if I was merely going to expire, anyway?
Some try with all their might to see affairs very optimistically… but, I think, that is but a synonym of ‘illusion’… one that, perhaps, is forced upon by oneself…
Existence is ever so exhausting, is it not? Imagine, if life itself never did happen… it would be merely clockwork, and no one thinking or feeling… is it not better?
Treant: You must be so… confused, as of now… no? Why, I fit one pattern in your mind, but not two… you must know what I refer to. I am, indeed, from the plant side of life.
Plants, though, are a strange bunch… why would they only propagate through their offspring by the wind? Nay, my will stood… but, then, it turned, flustered…
Here I am now, then… on the edge of… what is this place? I am not quite aware what use, if any, mobility has… be anywhere, move anywhere…
Or, indeed, if the physical kind does anything but distract… for life can be lived in one, solitary point, technically… plants were correct… although, what if…
What if the external seeks to destroy? It is, after all, how, indeed, the static is uprooted… how wills overwhelm, regardless… how the void, overwhelming… and, yet.
How, indeed, can one rationalize any of this? To express, perhaps, but then… what? Think until annihilated? Fear before oblivion? Cower prior nothingness? Ah, life…
One supposes… other creatures can always be observed, known, sympathized with, but… who would ever care for a walking stump? For that at the edge of existence?
Dragon: Do you not relish the… scent of annihilation? That creature that minds project… mythologies, symbols. It is that which is just not recognized… undesired, alone…
It is… myself, a dragon, both a legend, and yet somehow real… as emotions, as air is… invisible to one sense, but open to another… these graves, perceived how?
It is, of course, always varied… distinct stages of life, different states of mind, but do they not speak to you? Do they not appear… alive? To connect, such a pity.
They are what you perceive in relation to the subjective… just as dragons are, just as symbols are… and, yet, is that not a depressing implication? Borne of terror…
Those thuds… do you see? They are existence pushing to the edge, to my side of the bargain. Do you not delight upon these sombre hills? Do you frolic upon dark abodes?
This physical existence we are in… is it not that most sordid of imagined manifestations? Hardly can it manage worse, and yet it is the definition of existence…
Oh… I suppose, I might not make much sense to someone who depends upon clarity, no, but then whose oneirological reality does? Which fundamental destruction is clear?
Tomb 37: “The edge of time, a lover of procrastination, but why dredge that wreckage? Why stick to this aberration? Does free will exist, or is it merely the illusion, a thrill?”
Tomb 36: “Is existence not a lovely addition to physicality? The consistence of life… in death. One shall not, though, focus on the strife, instead, the horror of… breath.”
Tomb 35: “This insistence on persistence… such ennui… but what if the sun rose, and leaves dewy? Well, then, one shall say, optimism has run its course… and achieves not…”
Inverted dragon: So… what do you think of your surroundings, here? Do you reckon you enjoy conversing with the damned? Oh, I suppose one might make the argument that we all are…
In that sense, then… all so correct, but there is a time limit… no? As in, at which point the damnation initiates, is there not? See this random phenomenon called…
Life… as a type of a symbolic hourglass. That is, then, when existence falls upon them, and effectively utilized antimatter as it was about to be… at the beginning.
Oh, you are interested about that, are you? Well, are you not lofty… being so curious about the heights of the heavens… when lodged deep within a hell. As…
An hourglass, of course, comes in all shapes and sizes… some are even cracked a slight bit. Just as there are a variance of creatures from beneath, here… you see?
Now, the question is, has our hourglass run out? If it has… how are we able to voice these thoughts, or could they possibly be the equivalent of remnants, debris?
You may notice that others all say something a certain number of times… could it be, then, that it is but evidence of determinism… static predestination, even?
It is not like these are not conscious beings pondering concepts… but are patterns not alluring? Yes, even at the end… even false hope, while demons look from above.
Why, you are wondering, I am telling you so much more? Well, is relative silence not more conducive to such a thing? An infernal awakening, though… like the sun rising.
Just as antimatter never completed what it was apparently meant to, physically… why else would it exist? Why all the chaos? Why the random annihilations? It descends…
It reverberates from back then… when antimatter mysteriously disappeared, you see… it, as a collective, almost as if genetically, passed down its desires…
Its instincts for destructions… societies, the heir, and so damned are those with no nucleus, their protons, neutrons astray… awareness all it took… hourglass, on.
Is that mythological collaboration not sweet? As if antimatter would not go ahead with its very purpose… but, it disappeared, you say? It vanished into thin air…
Oh, did it? Why, do you reckon you know what is within the neuron? What is prior even will itself… parasympathetic instinct, why, it nestles so comfortably…
Existence might be tiring, but what does one know besides it? Why, else? Of course, you know what I mean, almost naturally… hardwired fear, intrinsic anxiety…
Tomb 23: “The heat… a demand to expire, the nature of deceit… retribution to expire; existence comic, if only not a dissolution… resistence, natural, for what instinct is?”
Tomb 24: “These whispers of the dead… what else can one do, apart from to embed evanescence? That which is so obvious, and yet such a temporary quintessence… this, that…”
Tomb 25: “The melody of doom… sweetened it seems to be, but atop the flume of fear, rage to distract… but to disappear, how awful to no else, because it happens to be lawful.”
Ghost: On the edge am I, you reckon? Why do you think it is only so-called ghosts who are? Your lives, even while animated, are so much more on the edge than you realize…
To admit that, is… difficult, is it not? Why, only when you are directly threatened with destruction do you relent, and finally allow for reality to creep in…
Is that not pathetic? Does life mean such a distinct thing to you, that you would fool yourself into believing that it is so sacred that self-deception is fine?
You would never go out of your way to convince yourself that cold is hot, so what of life is so special that you need to trick yourself that it is the most special…?
Look around you… so much that has no apparent life. I suppose, being alive one might believe that everything can be reduced to an animated core of some sort; a spirit.
Is that correct, though, or is it merely rationalization out of subjective necessity? Do you not see why it is all so futile? Why giving up is merely… joining all else.
You reckon I am merely a negative spirit, do you? What if it turns out to be real, though? How likely is it that life is special when the majority of the universe lacks?
Troll: Do I… frighten you? Does my mere presence instinctively make you decide on whether you should speak with me, or not? Death, though, of which life fears…
Is it not nigh invisible? Lest the cause is extraneous… is it not so subtle that you might as well fear nothingness? Oh, you do? Those microscopic beings, too…
Are they not some of your most effective assassins, effectively? So small, eyes can see not… one is barely alive, and yet still destroys biology…
Decades… nay, centuries have such an effect on the mind, but only within imagination… do they not? One can feel decades, even if solely in memory… but centuries…
Millennia… all a product of fantasy, of spurious thought conjured up as an aid to understanding. What is a mere generation, then? A solitary year? Time is evanescent…
You fear it because you know it is quite sharp… like the edge of a knife cutting through existence, obliterating all, both positive, and negative… and somehow…
Somehow, the mind is so fickle, so imaginative, that it is able to hide the negative behind a veil, and adore the positive as if it was a mountain peak with no blizzards.
One Eyed Bat: I see… with my sole eye, a sea of dark rivers and souls… do you wonder where that is? Could be just within the imagination… but it could also be… you know, Styx?
As if sticks in a forest… one’s everlasting rest, a hypothetical… is it, is it not? What a strange mystery this world is… at any moment, anywhere, annihilation…
Why does anyone persist, I wonder? Myself? Oh, no… I am merely just some wandering existence, more like the wind that brushes oneself momentarily… but is wind alive?
Do clouds form because rain is conscious, and desires to collect itself? Does the mind breakdown due to a rational decision? Is yours…? Mine? I wonder…
A psychological Tantalus, you reckon? A circle within the depths. An infernal wonder. Also, though… a lost creature within miasma. A purported psychologist transformed.
Whatever might I be rambling about? What else does anyone do here, though, but ramble… whether through discourse, or movement… it is all one can seemingly do until…
Is this world not sweet? As tasty as a mental disassembly… for the night is young, they say, except for some times… one is old… dejection, a mere luxury… fear…
Rapax: Ugh… how can you be so mundane?! How can you be this physically subdued?! Do you not feel it bubbling, underneath…? Do you not feel the fear turn into the future…
The fear that all will be lost… forsaken in the shadows of time… dice long ago set, and now all that remains is the conclusion of life; stories all have conclusions.
You reckon you could make illusory reality by never concluding them, huh? Procrastination the natural flow of the rivers of life? Wider reality functions not tinily…
You reckon, just because you heard how quantum physics seems to function that somehow your habits do similarly?! Well, that is as likely as myself fitting in small holes.
Destiny… you wonder about. Does it, did it ever exist so, though? I suppose, one might reckon, it is like a ball being propelled by a cue… and, now, your fate may be.
Annihilation… not a healthy prospect to obsess over, is it? In a graveyard, though… apt, I suppose, where else… coming from a creature who has known the depths…
Oh… I bet you thought I was going to attack you as soon as you saw me, did you not? Well, this is a world not populated by humans, as it happens, so how could that…
Ghoul Stone: Me, myself, and I… is solipsism not wonderful?! I mean, it actually is, if indeed that is all there is… or a simulation of it… unfortunately, my reckoning is…
I doubt it could ever be a reality… I suppose, in a self-contained virtuality… but the outside world is not quite that, although I know one would love that…
How do I know, almost for sure? Well, why else would so much exist to be defensive, or its contrast? Why would nails grow like living scissors…? Why would minds…
Minds that exist solely, it so seems at times, to destroy… not merely physicality here, not any of these creatures’ apparent, visual weapons… no, the mind, secretive.
To conspire to annihilate, to desire decimation… root of destruction, origin of words, similarly, but actioned upon by sociological mutuality… contracts of doom…
Not just, though, is it? There is also… chipping away, like a woodpecker, like time itself that dissolves both the physical, and psychological into empty nothingnesses.
I am that which… pertains to the unknown, and yet from there I reveal a crypt… lethal crypts, underground, suffocating… so claustrophobic, no? Mesmeric…
Dino: Oh… I suppose, you reckon you can learn about all this way, do you? About… life, just before… do you? I am not so sure… I mean, if you take me, as an example…
I seem to be a dinosaur, correct? Now, is that not strange, considering that… well, we were supposed to be extinct? Long ago, too… but, then again, this place has…
Many creatures… even seemingly non-existent ones. I mean, what is reality, ultimately? Is it this world? Is it outside? Is this melody? Is it its repetition?
The point is… I suppose, you can peck at reality all you want, ultimately though… it seems to be a mere hobby. I mean, could it ever result in anything?
It does not even seem able to result in a… lack of destruction, you know? What is the point of that, then? Discussing etymology in your head… while facing doom?
Strange, indeed… but, I suppose, dinosaurs had hobbies too… just before that meteor… and, now, we are a mere dream, a fantasy turned into memory… evanescence…
Pecking away… is life not a lovely nuisance? I mean, it is, is it not? What ever will you miss about it? If we could even think about our time back then… well…
Tomb 26: “As nothingness draws near… what becomes, verily, clear? Why, passions, but one always knew, and though to defy time itself… so far away, those which mime an idyll.”
Monster plant: You reckon… I would swallow you whole, do you? Why, perceptions are ever so illusory… outside, creatures that lurk in dark psychopathy, perfectly the norm manifest..
They… others, not so obvious, not so apparently visual, underestimate does one… do you not? For I can look like this… I can have the ability to consume you…
Instantly… but, the actual perpetrators, the actuators of annihilation… would certainly not be myself, would certainly not be the most, graphic descriptor… funny?
I mean, it kind of is… because illusions are ever-present, of course… one’s prior mere sad state of affairs, is but a future luxury… seeing twice over, you will…
Still… not see what eludes you… there, in front of your eyes… all you relished, you cannot… your last desire unfulfilled… ever pitiful, but why did life ever?
Ever, forever… life, the horrifying nonsense masquerading as anything… you do not seriously reckon rationality would save you? That anything apart from that cue…
Anything… at all. Why so illusioned upon? Waste of utter time, a stream of monologue… only thing a plant such as me can do… reckon not? Foolish foibles…
Monster rabbit: Ha… ha… you reckon you could make it out alive, out of life itself, do you? Just like you can make it out of this house, again… metaphorically.
Life, of course… is much more of a labyrinth than this place, is… and as nightmarish as we seem, as this whole town appears… it still could not quite compare to…
The raw, vivid waking nightmare that is life itself… kindly terrors that remind one of reality just out there, beyond the mind and yet within… why do you reckon…
They stopped…? I mean, it is not like any of the actual nightmares borne out of reality have, too… and, yet, on an almost biological basis… it is all. As if the…
Whole is composed now… helplessly flailing against reality, which makes such composition ironic… but, at least, I suppose, the night terrors are no more… eh?
I mean… at least, you only see my like virtually, as of now… or symbolically when one faces extraneous annihilation… was I, though, ever your problem…?
Was a… supposed ‘monster’ ever your problem… or did it, always, originate from who is almost identical, and yet so far apart… unless one considers renegade cells…
Ent: Yes, yes… I am a plant, effectively, although slightly bigger than most, and… bipedal, for some reason… never you mind that, though… what about you?
What brings you to this abode? Did you, by any chance, speak with a similar creature just beyond a verdant maze…? Ah, well, it matters not, here… at any rate…
Here… is where hope dies, I assume you have learned by now… whether one desires it or not… annihilation seems almost the inevitability within the unalterable…
Movement of a metaphorical vehicle… sociological dysfunctionality, is it not more destructive than any monstrous creature brought out of hell itself? Of course…
There is, inevitably, intention behind annihilation, it certainly happens not by accident… like, if that rabbit mutant nearby wanted to… ripping the heart out of…
Every life… would be possible, you know? The speed, the ferocity, the sharp teeth… but, no, as it happens, the will to do so lies not within the most obvious of such.
Why… what ever did you think a ‘tie’ represented? Being not of any such world… it seems to me it is but a symbol, a hidden nod to silent, almost occult suffocation…
Frogman: Do you… by any chance… feel that hopelessness? I mean, by now, I suppose, one would need to truly live in a bubble to not do so… just making sure, though. I mean…
Perceptions are so curious, are they not? Whenever one is threatened, no matter what the cause is… it is, thusly, demonic, per se… of course, currently you inhabit…
A certain place of… being, one where it is not necessarily only threats that take the form of… well, us. I mean, clearly, you must have noticed by now, we are not…
That is not the point, though, is it, when up is down, and reality is whatever… no? I mean, realistically, it is still how the mind perceives, as long as one is alive.
What happens, though, if indeed one approaches… nothingness? Are all sources of perceptions suddenly dark, gloomy terrors? Do demons, then, spontaneously pop out…
From every crevice, corner, and periphery… do you see, now, why we may not, actually, be that which you expect, after all? What little, prosaic rationality left…
Is… prose… ever, what you could be looking for, though? Seems a quite funny affair, just when existence is upended, dissolution possibly imminent — but, then, habits.
Iguana: Ah… I see you have made it, so far… not, that… well, making it anywhere, in this case, means anything… of course. It may merely mean… a waste of time, but…
Then… who is counting? What is a waste… no? I suppose going around in circles would be defined so… if one enjoys it, though… insidiously, of course, are those…
Tricky, little mazes in life that promise… something, but that can never be, can it? Not when you have a cue at one’s very birth… whatever could one do thereafter?
Well, one supposes, ramble on, for one… whatever that accomplishes. At least, though, you could communicate with creatures beyond your imagination; I mean, that has…
Never quite been a hindrance, has it? No, one supposes, ‘norm’ is much more of a problem… for ‘norm’ presupposes so much, does it not? Yet excludes what is, truly…
A… hypothetical, scientific reality… I suppose, even if one were to assume the universe began by a ‘cue’… it was not, exactly, set by artificial systems…
I give you that, though… really, as an iguana, how in the world can I speak? Never made sense to me, either… so, I do not blame you, certainly; but, then, physics…
Tomb 29: “From whence did the arc of misery originate? One might reckon, at first… but does the dark ever give way, or does it burst, as it intends, to but destroy…?”
Tomb 27: “Do you feel that… immediacy, the ideal long gone… fantasy a nostalgic pursuit, looming annihilation a distraction… but certainly not if autocracy, for if will…”
Tomb 28: “Sleep, so curious… either a flood of anxiety, or not a peep… if only such a variety was the day made of, but memory betrays… and yet one knows not which reverie.”
Monster: I am… as if a night terror made flesh. Paralyzed forever in an inanimated state within life, and yet without… conscious, and yet is able to only count the…
Vicissitudes of fate… fate being not some cosmic, or digital entity… rather, the insanity of ingrained sociology, for what else could one abstract it to? Academia…
One might think, but how are night terrors merely academic? How is raw madness manifest through millennia-old consensus, archetypal of justice, be merely academic? Is…
Life, or death? Nay, for one analyzes all this to understand, even if one is chained as Prometheus is, but he… hypothetical creator of all this strife, fire the…
Annihilator of all… could never be contained. Life could, though, and so is… especially after cults agree. Did they not once worship archetypes, though? Once…
They now… embody them, with not an acknowledgement. Purported logic, and yet indistinguishable from the mass conviction that death is desirable. Individually, though…
This abode of ours… is it not a home? Is it not less terrifying than those graves full of ghouls? We are not that… are we? This structure… not about to collapse?
Dark soul: Do you… see it? A mere symbol, as of now… a fragment of the imagination, a mythologized fantasy of a darkened abode, a gothic theatre of grim proportions… is it?
I assume… you realize what I refer to? You realize what I stare at? The abyss of nothingness… one you held back on for so long… why? There is only ever suffering…
Twice the time you had to verify that, now… it might have been vague, before… held aloft by the hopes of virtual idylls, and while those still exist… aggression…
Will never cease, will it? Hatred, hopelessness, always missing that platform, a million knives… why do you persist? You want to see how awful the next onslaught is?
An abyss just beyond one’s reach… no oppressive heat, no inevitable cold, just nothingness… curiosity, but fear… understandable, but what difference does it make…
If you are a mere zombie? The heartless in death could never compete with the animosity in life… I might be an inkling, but it is all so relative, permeating darkness.
I would thus transform in intensity, shall one become delirious in desperation, ushering in what demons lay in rest, verily… for death in life is where breath alters…
Yeti: You… reckon destruction will arrive, do you not? Life, as if, a vehicle… outside world the lever for annihilation. Why does it seem like they use all their…
Brute force to crush, you are wondering? These… bureaucratic collectives, made not of raw strength, a singularity of perceptive persuasion… like you would probably…
Feel like I would elicit from, say, someone who happened to be stranded on a mountain… never having seen me before. No, it is merely the madness of multitudes…
The cruelty of arbitrariness… might for its own sake. Not so different from autocracy, in a way, but dressed in an envelope, delivered by a tie… why, you always…
While ignorant of such pervasive perversion, you would reckon that a strange creature, almost spanning the sky, as myself, could be the real threat… at some point…
Is it not curious, then, that I turn out to be a mere myth, a psychological projection, an archetype meant to solely distract from the actual annihilators of life…
Do you feel the despair seeping in? The fear oozing out? The nothingness beyond as time’s sharp blade of haste cuts through? When uncertainty the only horizon… entropy.
Tomb 30: “This misery… is it but a constant of life, a century of incessancy? Perhaps, though, it is the essence that is rife with malignancy? Society’s coalescence, maybe?”
Tomb 31: “Insist on such stilt, do you, even while you merely wilt? There is so much that could crush you; the flush of biological ailments, perhaps, or the hush of humanity…”
Tomb 32: “Alone, to one side… for the structures demand one to atone, to withstand demonic projections, psychosis a hegemonic reality; at the back of one’s mind, fantasy alone.”
Tomb 33: “Why do you so obsess about minutiae, while the excess of nightmarish reality unfurls before you? Do you find the darkness garish? An irony, one admits; light a tyranny.”
Tomb 34: “The stench of the lifeless, although not quite as overpowering as the drench of the destruction of towering collective hallucination of subjective justice. Is it not?”
Cyborg dog: You might think… as if Cerberus from Hades, but alone… and, indeed, alone this head is, but does even a root make any difference? Even if there is a commonality to…
Life itself… what difference does it make? Clearly, very little, or there would not be so much strife… but what, you reckon, do the fiery embers indicate when they…
Burn through the essence of… not just the living, but physicality itself, until the same ash is the result… is that not having something in common? Well, if it…
Makes any difference, while all is lost… but I tell ye, on this seemingly drab night, that it might not… practicalities aside, is there anything shared apart in…
The imagination? It is, still, where whole worlds exist, but what difference does it make when all is lost? When the last embers die off remnants of ash? Reality…
Why, then, would one have three heads, just so perceptions would differ? In the end, how much does reality contrast with mere perceptual impressions, and does it matter?
I shall merely… remain here, and observe, for that can still very much be done using one head, and only a minimum number of senses; will it result in anything, but ash?
H: I… might not see, but I still… perceive. How do you see me, though? As merely someone with no mind, just terrors? As reaction, and no thought? For what is that?
Thought is such a strange affair… could it ever contribute to happiness, and if not, why does it at times seem almost compulsive? Just to avert fear?
What difference does thinking about my appearance make? Are my words not sufficient to overcome that initial perception of doom? Is it, perhaps, indeed hopeless to do?
Regardless of thought, or reaction, could reality be utterly hopeless, like my surface seems to be? Even if one were to dig within, though… are there any idylls?
At times, one can think… one can frantically react instinctively, while attempting to brush away all the symbols of absolute hell singing nearby… but would it…
Would it make any difference? Would life not have been better never to have existed in the first place? For nightmares are reality, and hope but an illusion…
The repetitive quality within life’s sordid manifestations… why does anyone choose to partake? Why does anyone convince themselves their eyes see not what existence is?
Spider: I am full of venom, you reckon? Oh, I wish I was as poisonous as some tongues… what, though, do you think makes some of us more, or less toxic? Just pure coincidence…
Conscious intention, perhaps? When one utters a word, after all, it is conscious… why could venom not be so too, then? Could it be the plain randomness of existence?
Is our presence a sign that one has rotted, as the impression of some fungi, here, seems to be… or merely that life is, indeed, present? Perceptions, after all…
Merely an illusion… are they not? How one enters, though… always curious, is it not? Just as fungi we are a medley, and just as them seemingly materialize out of…
Nowhere… but we do, or perhaps all life is but a speck one does not usually notice? A speck, so easily annihilated, so obvious to crush by those who have the luck…
To do so… just as some have venom, and some do not… it is, also, subjective, an ever-changing world of evolutionary exchanges, but societies do not care… why ever?
To be poisoned… what does it mean? It can be a metaphor, but also a practical reality… just as annihilation is, just as a state of nothingness could be a real state.
Tomb 1: “Fire, flame, inferno, to conspire would seasons do, perhaps, but in reality… for reasons of insanity; statistics, probability, the vanity of useless familiarity.”
Tomb 2: “What is to fear? A mere uncertain future, or does one expect a gruesome reality to appear? To avoid destruction, perhaps, but is a curtain’s fall not inevitable?”
Tomb 3: “This wretched existence, evolution of persistence so sordid, for why would one when the end result will be execution? When vicious cycles rewarded? Joy, no absolution.”
Helmet: You… thought you could merely keep on indulging, did you not? Forever, and for all eternity in fictional fantasy, rivulets of clouds, and feeling somehow guaranteed…
Of course, though… reality’s beat waited outside, calling out for attention every so often, but not too much early on… how, though, do you reckon one could not?
Do you reckon that the other side of the coin; the nightmare to a dream, the destruction to perfection… was not going to be upended? That somehow it would be eternal…
That nightmare would not somehow overtake the dream… when all life is tethered to raw misery, when the crux of reality, its very origin, is a claustrophobic incubus…
You knew this, and it is all you have left, this knowledge, and being lost… a mere luxury, just prior disintegration… is life not the cheapest? Fantasy, worthwhile…
While it is functional… when life itself does not crush it mercilessly, showing fantasy for the sand castle it is made of… until that, a worthwhile illusion…
Oh, are you wondering about this place? A certain fox gifted it to me, although I am not so sure it was a fox before a point, and it had this copper mirror I mislaid…
Magma: Ah… I should guess, you feel the despair? A slight bit incongruent, if you get what I mean… is that not because memories are composed of all sorts? This, a medley…
It is kind of apt that ‘medley’ seems ‘mad’, especially in dreams… although, they are usually more categorized, are they not? Not that this is not quite that…
Memories, though, do derive from a variety of sources, and so they lead to a medley of circumstances, at least for the subjective mind… not so much for one who has…
No prior experience; would make no sense, but anyway… do you not feel at the edge, in your psyche? If so, I assume you can sort of relate to this house also being so…
Can you not? Physically, psychologically… what is the difference when it comes to concepts? They can always refer to both, and rarely do metaphors differentiate…
Do you, by any chance, wonder why we have such a large cemetery nearby? Why, a whole load of thoughts go extinct, you see… so, it is kind of needed, but physically?
I am not quite sure why I am here, myself… I mean, should I be, or perhaps nearer to that gloom is more appropriate? Or, perhaps, just under the moonlight…
Mon: The scent of… gravity. Do you feel it? That which is about to be upended, and yet is not quite there… as of now. Is it not interesting when that happens? Just as…
When the moon gets its turn, not quite as binary it is… does not merely out of nowhere materialize, no, for reality is gradual. One has got to ask, though…
Physics may be… nature may be, or not, depending on evolutionary traits… why, though, would sociology, as if, mimic it? Not quite naturally; a gradual sort of hell.
I may have all these layers upon me, as evolution ended up so over eras, but all else is artificiality… pomposity masking itself as reality… integrated delusions…
It may, or not, serve a function… is it personal, though? Or, does the collective notion benefit from it? Perhaps, on the other hand, it’s there just for its own sake.
Whatever it is, though… surely, even my appearance, as gruesome as it might be, has more of a function, even if merely a subjective perception, an illusory impression.
You… are wondering why we reside inside, here? Why, while the moonlight outside might resolve a cool breeze, at times introversion is more functionally utilitarian…
Guard: Are you… wondering why I am here? Why anyone is here? Why, we would only not be if the universe itself were to never have existed… now, the question is…
Is that not preferable? Why ever did the universe indeed ever come into existence?! With its sensory default for life being pain, how is it that all just evolved…
To keep experiencing that? One would think, logically, that less negativity would be sought, especially by those alive… but, no, even consciously they seem unable to…
Choose any alternative… but, can they? Is it at all possible, or could localized decisions, thinking, be merely… say, epigenetics? If so much else is… why would…
These… also, be merely illusions? Senses are fooled so easily, so why would anyone think that minds are not? They are, by other minds, but why not background reality…
Too? Do you see, now, why we are here? To ponder all that is just not atop the cauldron of life; one might think, being confined more to an underworld, that we do not…
Thinking, though… such a strange affair, is it not? Some potentially useful, practical, other types… rhetorical, ethereal, irrelevant to reality? Not necessarily…
Tomb 4: “This neverending obsession, a mere formality, a question… does nothing to imbue vitality, but one must pretend, for where else would life’s miserable dew derive from?”
Tomb 5: “Life creates puppets, able only to flail, for where else would be rife with misery, perception never to scale? If only it never did, conception to inhale…”
Tomb 6: “Verily, an uncertain nightmare is what it is… for, until the final curtain plunges… is it not the essence of life? The possibility of empathy; a senescence, apathy.”
Tomb 7: “Could one even convince oneself of a limbo? When even to wince at its previous incarnation… was to be a mere animation of inherent insanity… of external vanity…”
Tomb 8: “Oh, to be forgotten, in the corner, like some rotten nobody… certainly no mourner of luck, but to embody randomness like the shoddy permutations of life itself…”
Tomb 9: “Are you not… hyped, to be central? For what else would the ego want; in life to have griped, and stared at that reflection on a knife… with such conviction?”
Tomb 10: “Numerically, all is lost for those with mere perception… but, then, it is generically where all of society’s deception lies… in a throw of the dice, by universes.”
Tomb 11: “Is what you taste not as sweet as misery? Interlaced with fear, anxiety, if one were to jeer at such a mere moment… it would be impropriety. Deceit, all there is…”
Tomb 12: “For what reason are some held in higher esteem than others? For treason seems to be the only theme… against logic, irrationality agleam, in this chaotic universality.”
Tomb 13: “This cage of uncertainty, a norm… for to gauge the storm accurately, a fool’s errand in this ghoul of an existence. So, then, subsistence in this misrule, resistance.”
Tomb 14: “What is it to… die? Is it to nigh surpass life, to imply ‘enough’, alas? Perhaps, though, it is to indirectly harass, to snuff that little joy, maybe a sense’s ploy?”
Tomb 15: “Oh, to have such a backdrop, despite the concrete… is it not worth all the deceit, regardless of senses… for let us drop all pretenses. Oh, I seem to be stuck atop.”
Tomb 16: “To be set aside… crushed, and lied, brushed away like the dirt on which one rests; life, merely hurt, for to be blessed is either luck or an illusion… such muck…”
Tomb 38: “Ah, the taste of the inorganic through the perception of an oceanic death… but, such a misconception, for life is still, an approximation, rife with strife…”
Tomb 39: “Thy life ends here, now… for why would it not? Why would the tao of existence, unbound chaos, spare your foolish persistence? Among these creatures, tao’s preachers.”
Tomb 40: “Your flailing is comedic, futility in abundance, scaling the walls of sanity, debility manifest. The privilege of ignorance, ignoring what affects not, to pillage mind.”
Tomb 41: “Ah, the edge of life, that sweet countenance, an everlasting dredge, a solid fence to all vitality; a contrasting distinction to how life is sold, an illusory duality.”
Tomb 42: “A mystery? If lost in time… but, usually, in history, if paths crossed, and the sublime ocean, frozen forevermore… does this potion of fantasy matter, though?”
Tomb 43: “Is it not such a thrill, doomed life? That it has to go downhill… well, every rollercoaster raged and fumed… and has not the end, usually, upstaged what is prior?”
Tomb 44: “On the edge of so many a thing, anxiety by the gallon, a wedge in life, but quite the variety at which this strife unfolds; to be able to breathe, would be too much…”
Tomb 45: “To be alone is such a state, but it is of possible peril, for one can be blown by any adverse winds, and so the mind a feral thing become, sanity to submerse, confined.”
Tomb 46: “When all around you seems hopeless, and all, even mostly reasonable, soulless… what, then? One’s life may be miserable, but the world a spectrum of negativity…”
Tomb 47: “To be, or not to be. in a state of limbo… free from the pressure of annihilation’s countdown; psychologically, a breakdown but a luxury; memory, a busy bureaucracy…”
Tomb 48: “Should one be willing… breath? To avert that inevitability, death… when hopelessness an inexorability, and the only reprieve uncertainty… is it enough to deceive?”
Tomb 49: “Is there a sign for rot? Perhaps, to be fraught with that which is under, after… but, then, what about the woolier, when they plunder? Perception, to aspire, really.”
Tomb 50: “Could an approach of nihilism be realistic, or is it but a subjective illusion, a perceptual tenebrism, perhaps? The infusion of noise and nonsense; buoys headaches…”
Tomb 51: “Why is the world rife with injustice so? As if it is inherent, a synthesis, if one must, of chaos itself… divergent only in that it is willed by lives; such bathos…”
Tomb 52: “Should one give in to logical depression, perhaps, or could it be an illusion, a mythical expression, maybe, to a sordid existence? Anything else might be a delusion…”
Tomb 53: “Is it, though, such an oddity, such strangeness, to be at odds with comedy, when one is surrounded by graveness… one would be astounded if it were to affect not…”
Tomb 54: “Here lies the… edge of the limbo in which you inhabit. That relative mellow stillness? Might turn into a dreamless inferno any minute… such is the social staccato.”
Tomb 55: “Is having a gloomy predisposition so attractive? Not exactly, but then would one not be merely empty if one were not abreactive, per se? A mere consideration.”
Tomb 56: “Why does it so seem for a still silence to precede a crisis? Why would such a sequence have such logic? The justice in such upheaval? Only a hell would have approval…”
Tomb 57: “Should one, perhaps, merely give up on all the impossible dreams, and affairs out of reach? Perhaps, indulge in that subjective syrup; senses creating lifestreams?”
Tomb 58: “Where does fear originate from? Maybe, it is to hear that which might be, or was, and could still disintegrate oneself? Irrationality is likely, but so is universality.”
Tomb 59: “Why is weird so? Perhaps, it is when clarity is blurred, but also possibly adjacent to reality, uncanny; but then, it is a nigh certainty for fantasy to be a cogency…”
Tomb 60: “Keep thinking, forgetting, I suppose, “what happened before will not”, lamenting, surprising oneself with frustrated denial… until the next sound to be found…”
Tomb 61: “Ah, pain, is it the point of life, or could it perhaps be merely the bane of existence? Then again, what is the difference? For nature is but rife with chaos…”
Tomb 62: “Why do you not indulge in the fear of what could be? I mean, life could be spared, or a spear could, indeed, be driven through like a metaphysical, apocalyptic horse…”
Tomb 63: “Here lay… all those foolish dreams, for why would one at all think that reality’s seams will be torn apart just so one’s desires could be borne…?”
ns 15.158.61.5da2
