the wasteland

This time and this place are very unfamiliar.  I feel more weary now, from the spirit out, weathered by the bitter chaotic winds.  Rustier. Wasted.  More him, less me, the shadow overcoming the sun in a spectacular decay of light.  The red spectrum bleeds deeply and with creepy touch, into a stain of degrading memory.

Fading.  I am

no longer sure of the path.  The roadsigns seem foreign and the maps are soaked with spilled coffee and tears.  Here, the wasteland speaks in cinderous tones.  The weeds behind me are filled with snakes and liars, whispering and whistling for .

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