It describes, in 2nd person, the process of a person succumbing to the effects of an entity called the Hateform, an idea for...something that's been stewing in my head now for a while.

Imagine this:

You're in a street in your home town during the day. You've seen this street hundreds of times before. You know the buildings, you know the layout, you know the god-damn sequence the traffic lights take. But something is out of place today. You kind of get this feeling that something is there. It's not a person, an animal, a car or even God. It's not looking at you, or watching you, stalking, haunting or hunting you. It's just there. And it's not as if it's right there, in front or behind you, it's not even on the street or even in the city. But it's there. Somewhere.

When you get home, your...who is it? Friend? Family member? Lover? They enter the room and ask why you're huddled in the foetal position on the floor, staring fixedly at a small crack growing the wall. And damn them, you shout at them, you scream it's none of their business. There's real vitriol in your voice. For just a moment you hate them utterly and completely for asking you. But damn it that crack in the wall is getting bigger.

By now the person you shouted and have spent the past three days screaming at has left in confusion, fear and sadness. And that crack has grown significantly. You now begin to sense this presence that you felt vaguely in the street a few days before again, but you know more about it, what it means, it represents and what it brings with it. What it intends to do. So, logically, you must rip this crack open, tear at the walls of the house until it is rent like a great wound in the house. You must hurt the house because it confines you.

You have now spent a week outside, homeless. You are cold, hungry but have refused help from lying priests, patronizing hookers and hooded dealers offering solace. Liars, bastards and whores the lot of them. You are furious at the outside, for it has made you hungry and weak and made you burn your house to the ground, even though it confined you and showed you how It was passing through, symbolically, through a crack.

Sometime later, somewhere - you don't even know, the very fundamental concepts of time and place are abhorrent – they remind you of your sorrow and misfortune. It seems much clearer now as everything else blurs. Descending from beyond Algol in a pus spewing rent in the flesh of creation, dead grey tendrils barbed with wasp stingers dripping darkness, a rough, filthy ashen grey thing like a man but whose very human features are twisted, bloody and so alien they are not recognizable as even vaguely primate. Atop the piled up corpses of countless infinities and those who inhabited them, a face of spewing physical loathing screams your name in alien tongues as its recites its cosmic necromancy. It is the clearest, purest thing you have ever seen. Its whole world is devoted to a single path, a single creed, a single ideology – a single way of thinking and being. This sight brings about in you the most intense and indescribable swelling of hate you have ever known. Not for the thing atop its mountain of dead, no, but for everything except that. Fuck the person in that long destroyed home, fuck the priest, the whore and the dealer – fuck everybody in the whole world! You are an instrument of this hate, of this perfect form of infinite selfishness. It is singular, it is true, it will never diverge or stop until it is spent and that is only when there is nothing left for it to be fuelled by.

The End

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