Morphing passageway. The movement of insects in a tree. Masochistic grub. Leave it alone leave it. Alone leave it alone. Leave it writhing in the rubble. It doesn’t know any difference it doesn’t. Want it don’t want to it doesn’t. Want to know. Anything.
Didn’t work. Running a fingernail over its surface. It had hoped to scratch the world into something else. Wish for it. Wait for it. Try feeding it something. Didn’t work. A catastrophic waste of beauty. Something has. Gone wrong. Still nothing. Someone wrote it a hymn to sing from behind the curtain of transparent plastic. Didn’t work.
Ensnared in a hazardous web. It tried to. Stab the earth to death. A pool of awful people-colored sludge. Used to be people. Its thoughts. Have become abscess. A disgusting pattern. An unused concrete space. Ghastly disease. Drywall crumbling. A space once used to store things.
Shimmering holographic towers will stand at the perimeter of the city. The first mistake. The first person. The first humans were sculpted out of trash. Small misshapen hands foraging for sour berries in the Paleolithic underbrush. Didn’t work.
Now, the Eschaton’s great horrible skin is emerging. Molten and fractured and green. Far too late now. It doesn’t it want to it get better. No. No visible eyes. It’s great. It. Didn’t work. It’s wanted. Great. Is made of paste. Mummified. Made to become putrid.