An overt threat from the Subconscious: death of the I/ welcome to New York City

The night hOlds the BLACK usually       reserved for a moonless Midnight fog, in a dense Canopy of trees. the stars offer no respite, and the only hint of       form I can make out of the          darkened faMiliar shopping center is illuMinated by the deep flashing purPles of an electrical stoRm broiling   amongst the peAks of the mountains. It is warm. Summer                    time. But there are no cars, no people, no trees, and the stark buildings        offer no salvation of light in their         onyx window panes. I begin to walk         the familiar path from the corner, around the stAr-buckS, behind the tac-o-bell, and towards my old safe house of the brew-Ing-mark-it. but, as     I begin to             pass through the parking lot, I realize that there are people there behind the veiled obsidian glass of the windows, they whisper of the evils they dream of, their voices carry across the silent vOid, amplified                               by the                         deafening        flashes and silence                 of the electrical       storm crashing in vehement waves behind me. The violet flashes launch my criPpled shadow fifty feet in front of me, illuminating my fraYed edges         in SHARP relief. after a time of watching their voices plot         across the failiNg distance between us, I slowly turn to my left, and wander towards the street searching for some solidarity           from the stoic road. i trace the siDewalk, which                       lines the street, following its path back towards the star-bucks, which waits my arrival in complaCent silence. As I near the parking lot I realize that time                         has been RAVaging the concrete, craCks and fiSSures run in joyful chaos                 through the extent of the parking lot at recalcitrant      angles, rarely capitulating to my desire for them to REJOIN. RootS from long dead treEs have forced the sidewalk              into waves which crest anD crASH in on THEMSelves.                     As I stAnd there wasting away, enjoying            the power of time, I hear the muffled yell of an unintelligible word float slowly though    the void of time created by the violet lightning. As I try to decipher       the meaning of the sound pulsating through my brain I see a man         running from the darkness, his form moving as slOw as the sound which recently burst so violently from  the confines of his throat. He is     wreathed in the rags of a vagabond,       the outer shell billowing behind him in his haste. His face is lined like the rapidly deteriorating cement I am standing on, ravaged  by the force of a million years condensed into seconds.                   His beard is white like a glaCier in an oil spiLl. his hOod hides his hair, but in his eyes I sEe the sTorm gathering behind me, his irises’ are so blue that they appear white,  and his oversized pupils are threatening to consume me.      I try to scream,                       or run, as his disembodied call slowly washes over me again, but I am frozen in place. I watch in           paralytic horrOR as the time     and space       between us                 collapse.