Shrill

You cannot encapsulate oriental dungeons or palatial cubicles through windows that open to the street. The street spouts gourds of spirit that rise from its holes. The wind twists gargoyles to dust under cold embers of the night. A sheet of shadows flutters and descends on withered trees and decrepit bodies rotting in files.

Bury the stone. Scratch the rock. Hack the night and let its igneous molt flow.

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