Ominous droning synths and the wail of harsh noise pervade the wreckage of my home, suffusing my body like cold waves that lap and penetrate deeper with each undulation. I am losing this battle. My sanity is diminishing daily, and there wasn’t much to begin with. I am not the only monster that lurks the empty corridors of this paltry little hovel. There are things from outside that are worming their way inward, piercing where they might (if I may borrow a phrase from a Lurker of Chalice song title). Death is coming; there isn’t much time.
I’ve plunged into a new sub-level of despair and am approaching the aphotic zone rapidly, a mere pinprick of light above is all that remains visible in this sunken oubliette, and when the darkness is complete I’ll drown for eternity, silently suffocating on the bile of so many dead dreams. I feel nauseous. The idea of concussive trauma haunts me. I might wake up with a claw hammer in my hand and find I no longer have the willpower to resist bashing my own brains in. Time will tell.
Towers of Rust 