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.