Drops pattered down the wood, worn and cracked. Statues of ancient and gothic veneers exuded a strange darkness; the gargoyles shone, lucent before the moon, creatures of beastly gazes... heads arranged row by row, an order civilized—a conception humanized; such unity, personified.
It was not normal. It was not so, unreal, a phenomenon unexplained.
Mockery unseen, a judgment unlawful—unfettered, the discussion unholy, a decree as unjust: ungrateful, unproductive, unjustified.
"Foul!" The hides and fur were torn, rent from the foundations. "I have not lost," a crass voice shrieked. "This is just the beginning. Yes, I must win."
A back slouched, sick and frail, barely fitting the velvet suit worn... trod to the sculpture of a feathered babe.
"I will win, right, child? Junior—good old sport?"
Warm vapor shrouded the reflective skull.
A white trail was formed. A mouth, wide open.
