godlessmess

withering through the twisted and mutilated landscapes of steel and mesh and wire a dull thud whispers into his ear. a man, standing on the pier, the water lapping around the jutting poles issuing from the murky depths. all the resistors sell out. cold wind seeps in from the sea, pulps surround -- an olfactory pungent pith. with the pithiness of a grating auto-mechanic he's clinging to his perch, testing the scripts he played out last week and jumping through the cells of his fractured and warped little brain. never like this. it's never been so cold or so wooden. the planks, rotting away beneath the foot, creaking and shaking with the undulating winds. yes. this is the place to be. the moss covers anything that ever lived and most of the things that didn't.