The old quarters

2024-06-23 @Creative

… Something ineffable to those old parchments and cloth-bound codex and fading runics inscribed on tablet fragments, chronicling the preadomite prophets and their assemblies of clay golems, eyeless, genderless necromancers, hyacinth garlanded jesters, pantomime eunuchs seamlessly manipulating ether, nose-ringed, jaw-ringed, brow-ringed dwarfish avant-garde, bastard castoffs and decrepit sorceresses of even further deformed slave legions of their own. Gravitating into the recesses, I tumbled into a smothering whirlpool of green-violet globulets both intoxicating and incensed, vials of convulsive fumes both exfoliating and putrefactive, images both voluptuous and brandishing, intermittent chants, chromatically defying eruptions, these both hypnotic and deafening, and the most harrowing: total disregard for convincing compositional unity and perspective. Trinkets, hardly manifested in unforgivably piercing luminescence, vanished like a firefly in the crepuscule of the Ardenian garden; the same twirling alleys appeared to guide but in aleatory trajectories; the hooded and cloaked merchants sauntered in no means ascribed to recognizable Newtonian tenets; no suspended tapis projected the same iconography consecutively; the unceasing mutability evoked spasms, like a Kabbalah show devoid of moral frontiers; like a bottomless gulf of the hollow glacial firmament leading into further abysmal dungeons inhabited by endlessly bemoaning warriors, the infidels of no firm design nor origin; like the Valhalla ranks without neither prestige, resolve, nor statutory code. There was no retracing steps; no emergency latch, no redress, no respite. The flames would see no definitive still, but only expand and intensify. There was but the plunge into the bottomless, pitiless gulf.

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