Muccl

The smooth, cold walls resemble milled marble, sanded by the feet of a million worshippers. The dark blue vein throbs with a dull luminosity, guiding the gentle specks of dust in ever decreasing circles.

There is no seam. There is no cut. There appears to be no edge.

The wall becomes the floor, but the non-elucidean geometry confuses the eye and it becomes impossible to distinguish the floor from the ceiling, despite the obvious separate presence of the walls.

The main body of the marble is a mottled green-grey, resembling the bark of a tree gnarled by countless aeons, forgotten in the bleak dullness.

There are no shadows, only movements; slow and rhythmic, yet chaotic and suggestive of regression. There is no focus, just an expanse that is impossible to truly grasp. It is as if an understanding of the whole is felt before an experience of any aspect of it is felt.

In the eternity of a moment, measured by the throbbing of the blue vein, a passage becomes apparent. Whether it formed or had previously been unnoticed is unclear, but its presence creates a soft calm against the dull oppression of the bleak surrounding encasement.

In the distance, echoed from within, comes a solemn deafening whisper.

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