Apr 30, 2013 13:19
"It's not entropy," he says as we slide up the descending granite stairs. I notice that his leg slumps and fully disconnects from his body. There is no blood; I suspect he hasn't had any for some time.
The pores on his head, now stretched thin and splitting open, yield puce tendrils that sway independently from his motions. Gravity gently peels off his face, allowing the fine hollow quills to flex outward as fibrous slime casually ejects from his vacant maw.
One brightly colored red claw is raised from what was once his hand to punctuate his statement.
Gently he hisses,"No, no. It's *choice*." I continue transcribing.
gibber