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Hills are quite. Towns filled with innocence. Sun dies behind the mountain. The deep ones from the corners of the room expand their arms, dangled and frail. The voice cryptic with three times the tone of a human. Fear injects the mind. All that is fresh. All that is flesh. Rows of spines are starting to move. Arms of the kings are proud again, we are plunged into a reality of terror and everlasting night. Laughter heard from the sky. Tomb of our queen, broken. Our jackal in sight. The deep ones from the corners of the room expand their arms, dangled and frail. The voice cryptic with three times the tone of a human. They repeat to me one last final word ‘quite’.
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