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Baal Moom
01-09-15, 05:18 PM
Death. Death is inviting despite the terror. All the lavender couches, they sing in chorus, and Mr Dickens requires our full attention to operate properly. Nothing to declare here, Solomon. The Lord has forsaken you and all of your disgusting maggot friends, their filth overpouring and poisonous spiders hiding behind their every utterance. No, lad, you are dooAmed to wander these aisles for all eternity, in the supermarket where hope comes to die, and rot; and give birth to flies, cockroaches and plague, till the stars go out and everlasting darkness engulfs creation. Death awaits quietly in her used books shop, a little wrinkled old lady in a pink dress with little white flowers drawn on it. She sits on a stool by the entrance, drinking coffee and thinking about life. Your life, Solomon. Everyone's life. She calculates mercilessly, endlessly counting the seconds of everyone's lives simultaneously, and when your time comes, she throws a coin into the charity box on the little wooden table beside her, and a soul is cut out of a body, like a heart at an Incan altar. She doesn't do it very often, for she lives in a realm in which time misbehaves and things are strange. Tomorrow is yesterday, now never ends, and next week will never come though it is long over, and yet the little old witch never misses a soul. Seek the Maggot's advice Sol, and may the Gods be merciless with your enemies, and more so with you. Break her legs.