I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
He longs for quiet, but not this kind of quiet.
He wants a quiet of the mind, of the soul – not of the world around him. It is not the stink of abandonment, but the gentle pressure of the quiet
(the dark)
inside.
Instead, he has this – a forest that feels bereft of life. Some things stir, sure – the susurrus of birds’ wings, the subtle shifting of leaves under a beetle’s foot. But mostly, it feels so goddamn quiet.
He does not know what is becoming – or has become – of him. He knows he is different, now, that something thrums under his veins. But he is so used to changing, see! His body has never truly been his, not for a long time. His body has too long been distorted at the whim of the dozen strange worlds he has been thrust into.
So how is this any different?
So what if the world seems to be falling apart?
(He never knows if the things he’s witnessed were his doing, or if they were even real at all. Things burst into flame, sometime. The rocks turn into tigers. A cackle screeches out into the darkness, emanating from nothing and everything at once.
But there is never anyone else around to react. And Sleaze does not trust his mind. He does not trust anything.)
He is hopeless in his movement, trudging along a path that has begun to disappear back to the forest. He feels a strange pang of sadness, then, and whether it is for the disappearance of a once-loved trail or for the new growth he crushes beneath his feet, I could not tell you.
(He must not be entirely hopeless, then – for he moves still. He moves still.)
Sleaze
I haven't written in a million years