There are places that no man will ever see. Certain sordid pockets in time and space and memory that lie in wombed tranquility, nebulas of dust crumbling in dark corners and silence. And being so untouchable to the eyes of men, no one will ever speak of them in dry, distinct terms of reality and unreality. Here, they just are.
Here, beyond nowhere, they do what must be done. Red walls ripple, and in the midst of all the red is a steady pulse, warm around them, now and forever. They are always alone. Always waiting a little. For the whiteness of a human hand perforating the red like water breaking, or sudden, searing light— they don't know. But they do know, like an animal knows the arcane forces of nature which it exalts in visceral worship.
In the fetid haze of the place beyond nowhere, shapes move, jerk, twitch. They are standing on the ceiling while rusty levers jut out, neglected, and for innumerable seconds the world is still. Dormant.
Static.
No life, no decay. They are always waiting a little. But even the waiting want.
Writhing against one another. Jerk twitch grind lurch quiver spasm thrust. All-encompassing heartbeat and heat close in. Reality-shifter, murderer, Mother. Still waiting for the last. Until then, they do what must be done.
Valve and mortal coil turn.
fin