In the wrenching spell of nightmare, something cadaverous, phosphorescent on the forest floor. Bleached like a drowned man months missing. Current-carried, caught on some subterranean thing. Tell me it isn’t you. Tell me. Oh, my Son. My life.
Have you felt it, dear one? The oddness, the forced smiles, the hurried looks. The swift shutting of doors at dusk in huddled houses. Poisonous seeds have been sown. Short fuses in broad day. Scripted horrors bring us to the brink. Our world is waiting.