Dark and dark and dark.
A pattern emerges in the two-dimensional landscape. A pantheon in the billowing blackness. I don't know if my eyes are playing tricks. The columns reach toward an invisible base, twitching like the legs of a newborn colt. Glistening.
They become towers as they descend. Tall skyscrapers with glimmering windows, bringers of light and harbingers of the fallen. A shadow metropolis forms around me, wretched with disease and lust. The sky is blotted out by the crippled fingers of the city, fingers that are reaching, swaying, clenching against the paradise that cast them down.
The city is hurt.
I listen to her wails.
"Home," she pleads. "Take me home."
Her voice is the voice of many, demonic in it's harmonies. She sings with a sickened jazz. An ensemble of trains, cars, hunger, begging, sex, guns, waves crashing on the shore. Of blue skies and no skies, and the howling of the virgin moon at the very moment when her fiery aggressor breaks the lock of her bedroom and sets himself upon her, heavy and hot. Of joyous choirs quieted by the seething lunatics on the streets, naked and shot full of methamphetamines and liquor, crying for the sake of crying, hallucinating grandeur and dreaming religion. Her voice is painful and beautiful and sorrowful and full. A prayer.
Her voice is mine.
The fingers that reached for the Heavens are reaching before me. They are mine. Scales of concrete and steel bind as my skin. Torn and scarred wildernesses traverse my chest, eyes, back, shins, buttocks. Tattoos of people and places mark the memories of my history. I am manifested.
I am a god.