Subliminally caustic. Understated madness. Incomprehensible forms, with roots veining into the imaginary, as sepsis would leak from a rotten tooth into a pink-sheathed jawbone. Spreading as a wildfire, only as a brain fever of disconnected images, sounds, electric impulses, and tremorous anxieties. Violence in its final, most hushed permutation. Insidious, a poisonous aura with no taste or scent, encircling its prey without judgment or mercy. A finality colder than death. Not ruthless, but implacable all the same. Bubbling up from the pulpy bed of a blood-drunk akasha, inky and tenacious, but sobered from its feast of carnage, reflective in the depraved glow of its excesses—not remorseful, but one could be fooled. What more can be wrought from a mean horizon of esse but the lamentations which a thing such as it can inspire? The whimpering, the braying hatred, the orotund waves of sorrowful cries... a sweet symphony on some planes, but a hollow din on levels much higher. Hunger comes after the first course, of course, but it's a peculiar appetite that scrapes the guts even when the plates are clean, and it comes time for dessert. A silent expectancy and greed for a bounty richer than carnal comestibles can furnish, and yet blacker than the shade offered by six feet of grave dirt. When the
Flesh Grinder has concluded its bladed dance, what satiation can the aurlization of a black hole continuum pursue to make whole the fullest deprivations of its sanguinary intentions? Where does the chthonic nadir of desire lie?
