Lately I've been understanding destinations better than the path to them. Clarity of the exit scene, a confident divergence of standard plot line and character archetypes. The living dead have no fear of a destiny distanced from present course. Ghostflesh, an incorporeal skin between here
and nowhere.
This is the end of a bloodline, a cauterization so complete as to obliviate the branch. I suppose I failed at my task of passing the code onto another. Generations of memories and discoveries leaked to shadow, not sound. Fade to grey and
away. Perhaps I am the camera for many generations that all want their turn at the aperture. Flooded, as the last, the ghosts of immeasurable yesterdays racing from the black hole, where all is disassembled and
blended into the darkest of matters.
They skip from line to line, father to son, mother to daughter, until the host itself loses kinetic push and
expires.
Some awaken to dawn, others drawn to dusk. Those unfortunate souls born in between burn and turn in the pure light. With eyes of twilight I write as fast as the dying stars allow. That's all there is now, at the end of this bloodline:
Lust. Perhaps we need to die alone so those wrong qualities of this creature are muted. Without the ability to pass the dark code, there can be no true programming. The script ends, the reel runs empty,
and only the dreamscapes remain, captured temporarily in the dust of this swift plane.
So kill the artist; it is too divergent for this human race, too exploitative of the disappearing space, render to myth, with only a painted legacy to be seen, the directions in this circular sentence leading chaotically and illogically toward this
exit scene.