LAYER 07: THE CHURCH OF TENULLY
just an hour ago i was full of feeling, the itches screaming beneath the blemishes of my flesh. but now it's all gone away, the tears that my hands grasped have returned to the wind and infinity, and all that's left to nurse my grown-over wounds are my cold dry hands. if i scream in anguish it comes out only a pitiable squeak. perhaps my anguish is imagined. the spores and tendrils of the interforest tremble within my veins, holy messengers of infection.
Old Man Hands, i ask you to come to the outer hills, on the north road through the interforest. From the end of the road walk a mile still north, where the path splits in two. Take the path to the west, and travel a mile yet, where you should come upon a baby grove. Fifty paces south of the path, there will be a hole, and a pile of dirt near it. All i ask of you is that you fill the hole with the dirt.
Only then might i be saved.
Was it a mistake to ever show my face to the beauty of the sun? Has nature's beauty betrayed me? A computer, like the ones that grow beside the river, grows from my forehead. But hell, was i ever any different from one of the computers that grows beside the river? The spores laugh through my pores, and i begin to feel exactly how my ancestors felt fifty million thousand years ago, after all this life is merely a puppet play for them, a baseless guess at fifty million thousand years into the future.
i must remember, though today is worse than yesterday, tomorrow will be worse yet
gave
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