No soul comes out alive from the fringe of darkness

I've spoken to the lady in the shop. She thinks that under the rug of the train that passes on the eastern rail in Munia, there is a devil that springs up and grabs the passengers. I've told her there's nothing, that it's her mind, but she won't change her mind. There is something charming about these thoughts. The chance has come to see to the other side of darkness, to light, to the heroe's anathema.

The glasses in the dark will bring terror into our ears. They will shine with sound until there is so much blood on us that we will cry for redemption. Sari clogs the understitial with terror underground. Monochrome fingers spot the noses of the living and snap our fungal sprouts back into their creation source. No soul comes out alive from the fringe of darkness. No life stays for too long and wants to keep living.

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Anathema is the only escape

Lunch comes in the middle of the night for the night owl. A fierce hour of 9 feet walks out of it and the appetite that we held flies to the 200th amenity. A botter and a shooter. The music plays. The singing wraith fills the clothing pin and pries apart the nuts and bolts of creation. No man I've seen to walk on two feet in front of the queen. She smiles and looks at them and their shame puts them on their fours. The shooter spies from afar and makes the terrible undergo a series of changes. This underdives their will to eat.

The botter is the harder one. It's not a person but a creation of a creation, the singing wraith that sews its pants with atoms and molecules, with trains and sleeping ladies terrorized in their dreams. I saw them. No one escapes the botter's claws. Amenities become ferrous and the slits of their eyes grow to become spiders and tarantulas.

_{Images from Pixabay}