blinded by the chatter of the silent and still. the noise keeps coming from below, only to be drowned out by the atrocious concotion of the brain. the images of past lives flash in endless frames as the music from the other room plays the dirge that was written before birth, and commenced as we began to suckle.

the voices guide, the screams frighten, the cries guilt us into becoming what we feared to become. it wasn't as if we didn't see it coming. we saw it a mile away. it landed in our laps and caressed our wet cheeks and closed our eyes and ears so the pain could subside. it never did. it was all an illusion. a happy diversion from our emotions and sensations.

they tell us that we are what we were envisioned to be. Envisioned by an immortal with no contact with my domain. defeat; imminent. chaos and distruction are among the first to arrive in the mist of thunder and rage. blinded by chaos and muted by thunder, fighting seems to be the last thing to do.