(no subject)
Matt is dreaming.
Tell me what I'm thinking now Parkman?
It is particularly vivid, this dream. There are burns that he knew how to fix once but he hasn't been a boyscout in a dog's age. we're all just dogs in the end if we're lucky.
What's really disconcerting is the man in front of him scribbling on the floor. HE HAS NO HEAD
You always jump the gun man. It's one of the reasons you're easy to relate to..
He only has half a head.
Fingers touch shoulder and the man vanishes like smoke. The Prophets are always the first to go. leaving behind a sketchpad. Matt suspects, upon closer inspection, that the images that make him turn away in disgust are drawn in blood.
"Hey Parkman."
Matt drops the sketchbook. Dust mights scatter to the floor and ressurect.
You can't claim credit for being that creative sweetheart..
"Thompson......"
There's a hole in his head. It's big.
See that? That's not your work. Why are you plagerizing?.
It's leaking thoughts and matter.
sTop LoOking At ME!
Matt rises, "Thompson...Thompson-" He saw him shot and saw him die, "Thompson, Thompson..."
"That's my name Parkman. Don't wear it out."
You call yourself a fucking hero? What do you have to be afraid of kid?
He takes a step forward and Matt runs.
--------
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
There's a note tacked to the wall in what was an examine room once upon a time. WhEn U CloSE thE wOrlD AlL U caN dO iS NePo EhT tXeN. We were hoping for someone else, but for now you'll do..
"heY pARKmAN."
The thompson thing is in the doorway. It's lips are pulled back in a snarl. You'll do just as well as far as my vengeance is concerned. No man wants to die..
There's a gun. It's a colt.
Is it the famous winchester gun!?!
It's nothing special.
Awww.
It whispers death in smoke.
There is a mad scramble for a weapon amid a forest of needles and dried wounds transfixed on paper. Thompson's gun advances, mouth a gaping maw, And now we can end your false pretentions, you fucking fake! You fucking pussy! What makes you think that you're better then me?
he pleads for half a heartbeat before something jams into the dead thing's chest. It's sharp. It's pointy. It's Poetic justice. Giving a character his due A pencil.
The prophet smiles, "Guess I'm only a hero after the fact."
He leaves wings behind him that turn into feathers that Matt collects one after another and it's only when metamorphasizes into a portrait that he stops and stares.
The picture is too gruesome for words.
But what's worse is the line underneath. "YOu SHouLDN't HAvE coME bAcK." Do you have time for mindgames you fool? you have work to do. A life awaits you. A mission to complete..
his brain spins. For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the worldends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
And he screams.
-----
When Parkman wakes up he's drenched with sweat and increasingly convinced that his dreams have been written by someone or something considerably psychotic.
Tell me what I'm thinking now Parkman?
It is particularly vivid, this dream. There are burns that he knew how to fix once but he hasn't been a boyscout in a dog's age. we're all just dogs in the end if we're lucky.
What's really disconcerting is the man in front of him scribbling on the floor. HE HAS NO HEAD
You always jump the gun man. It's one of the reasons you're easy to relate to..
He only has half a head.
Fingers touch shoulder and the man vanishes like smoke. The Prophets are always the first to go. leaving behind a sketchpad. Matt suspects, upon closer inspection, that the images that make him turn away in disgust are drawn in blood.
"Hey Parkman."
Matt drops the sketchbook. Dust mights scatter to the floor and ressurect.
You can't claim credit for being that creative sweetheart..
"Thompson......"
There's a hole in his head. It's big.
See that? That's not your work. Why are you plagerizing?.
It's leaking thoughts and matter.
sTop LoOking At ME!
Matt rises, "Thompson...Thompson-" He saw him shot and saw him die, "Thompson, Thompson..."
"That's my name Parkman. Don't wear it out."
You call yourself a fucking hero? What do you have to be afraid of kid?
He takes a step forward and Matt runs.
--------
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
There's a note tacked to the wall in what was an examine room once upon a time. WhEn U CloSE thE wOrlD AlL U caN dO iS NePo EhT tXeN. We were hoping for someone else, but for now you'll do..
"heY pARKmAN."
The thompson thing is in the doorway. It's lips are pulled back in a snarl. You'll do just as well as far as my vengeance is concerned. No man wants to die..
There's a gun. It's a colt.
Is it the famous winchester gun!?!
It's nothing special.
Awww.
It whispers death in smoke.
There is a mad scramble for a weapon amid a forest of needles and dried wounds transfixed on paper. Thompson's gun advances, mouth a gaping maw, And now we can end your false pretentions, you fucking fake! You fucking pussy! What makes you think that you're better then me?
he pleads for half a heartbeat before something jams into the dead thing's chest. It's sharp. It's pointy. It's Poetic justice. Giving a character his due A pencil.
The prophet smiles, "Guess I'm only a hero after the fact."
He leaves wings behind him that turn into feathers that Matt collects one after another and it's only when metamorphasizes into a portrait that he stops and stares.
The picture is too gruesome for words.
But what's worse is the line underneath. "YOu SHouLDN't HAvE coME bAcK." Do you have time for mindgames you fool? you have work to do. A life awaits you. A mission to complete..
his brain spins. For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the worldends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
And he screams.
-----
When Parkman wakes up he's drenched with sweat and increasingly convinced that his dreams have been written by someone or something considerably psychotic.