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Awakened by the wiry rays of a pale winter morning, a creaking body shambled from its hovel in the hill. Its weathered skin, riddled by bristles rising from flesh, clung to the wind, to every icy breeze. Upon its eyes, fashioned by time, like spheres of tarnished silver in sockets of tar, reflected a malicious stage of snowy needles and shivering trees.
"Best of both worlds," the quivering figure gasped. "To one its torment, to other its pleasure. So what a marvelous scene that lay in front of me, of people drowning, gnashing and thrashing on top of the sea."
The husk paused, awaiting the return of a distant, fading chorus from the swaying, brittle forest.
"Soothing, serene, this corroding, hollow void. You secrete from the seams, weave thoughts into dreams. Why shift so subtly through the moments of time? A mask you wear? A song you sing? A game you play? Endless, thick, mystery trickles from your maw, and each drop only momentarily quenches our feeble, fickle curiosity."
The figure sickly sighed and wheezed in the vicious chill.
Cloud's temperament gnawed through empty sky and lustrous lines of light illuminated the mountainside. From hill to horizon storm slowly seeped, staining the sun with a bitter, withered, veil.
"What arrogance of puppets plucking their strings, pondering the pull of a playful paradox prancing through the abyss. A flimsy grasp we hold this existence, distorting and warping with every concept, model, and lie. Collective reality: agreed upon, massed together by crackling, wayward minds colliding in sync to dance and sleuth for convoluted truth."
Searing heat slithered up the figure's spine, forcing contortions of excruciating, maladjusted bliss. Snow morphed to greasy soot, enveloping the scene to shadows as bands of brilliant mauve and blue whimsically darted from sky to sea.
The figure, entranced by the decaying sight, collapsed to the ash and shut its heavy eyelids.
"Death, an ominous presence forever entwined with life, scurries past anxiety into afterthought." The frail ghoul hacked up a pungent, black mucus onto the powdery ground.
"The great, fertile nothing awaits us all."

BFP2 Uploaded 09/17/2011
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