I sat alone in blackened mist, a cold chill slithering across my flesh, shivering. Where was I? who am I? Out of the nebulous drabness of night screamed endless bellows of silence. I tried to move but could feel nothing, no ground beneath my feet. Though alive, I could not inhale any air, a pleasurable suffocation, vacuum of dreadful emptiness.

I recalled no memories and it seemed, my existence was but folklore spoken by no one – a tale untold into ear-less heads. I was an unwritten story never read, never written. I was an imaginary fabric of the void, a shadowy phantasm, a vacant bubble of dreams…but whose dreams?

A thousand eyes defiled my surface, examining every crevasse, probing all of which I did not know. Fear had taken my world and I knew they were there, watching my every move, predicting my very intention. A surmounting terror wrapped it’s powerful claws, clasping my heart, yet I yearned to hear it’s beat. It was close and I knew death was inevitable.

Conceiving echoes from a distant shore, thousand masterpieces of hellishness painted, still hidden, sheathed in black, behind which veiled my memories. I could taste the thickened flavour of ocean, a salty fog sheathing my virgin tongue. I felt no pain. I had no arms, no legs and no solid reality to sink my handless arms into.

A voice walked towards me, dragging a clubbed foot across searing lava – I could smell it cooking within it’s tattered, leather boot. I tried to cry but could not. My head remained eyeless, yet burned they did, in need of moisture, cracked and chaffed. If only I could secrete a single tear of blood to thank he who approached, to pay tribute for relieving me of this lifeless extinction. A whispering murmur shattered my windows of reality, groaning,”Who are you?”

Who are you, who are you, repercussing back and forth. Screaming jets of sound in textured layers betwixt my madness; reverberations of insanity, chiseling souls, molding dreams. The voice blasted in geometric amplitudes, pulverizing my boneless head, leaving it as forgotten mush.

The words bounced violently within my cerebral echo chamber and emanated an untasted odour, a silent fragrance encased in a glistening skin, undulating, bathing in silvery refraction. Finally, I began a forward velocity, mourning that which I dreamed, to answer the question . . . who are you?

There it hung in all it’s eternal loneliness: a mirror. The mirror of my dreams, above which dangled a solitary light to shine upon what I wanted so desperately to know. Though petrified in terror, I summoned the strength to gaze upon the unknown. I strained a powerful wave of visual acuity upon my reflection, taking in my identity, an attempt to solve my reality, to unmask my secrecy.

I felt that singular tear of blood trickle down my cheek, stricken by profoundity as I distinguished nothing. I was not there. I do not exist, a forgotten memory existing only as an unborn notion of nothingness. My spirit smiled, alas, my question answered . . .  and I heard angels sing.

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