The Final Hour

It is my most unusual inclination, of prolific inheritance, that my ruminations frequently, out of obscene novelty, unfold the envelope from which dialects of the gotesquely ethereal are manifested in paracosm. You will fancy me a character of unbridled imagination, of that melancholic vigor, which trespasses the verve of crestfallen poets, but this is only corruption of facticity. In reality it is not solely the muscle of imagination which holds, as fortitude the nature of my ideation, nor is it the might of unpleasant rumination, which has strum the chords of my mind, at subliminal and irregular intervals. It is rather that fiend, which is fate, giving its prelude upon the dearth of my conscious, wriggling in my brain as of an orgy of maggots! But how am I sure that these infernal daydreams, have some derived element, from the darkening sphere of the macabre? How unpleasant is my intuition to have masticated from my visions, the disconsolate imagery of my buried corpse? I shall explain. On a fine night as I was ensconced upon a couch, gladdening the eye, to the erotic quivers of the hearthfire, I heard a footfall, which stole my attention to haranguing arrest. I found that my visitor was something of unparalleled hideousness and bore all the seemings of the macabre, in his squelching liquid eyes, his acuminate protrusions of pearly teeth, and that stale pigment of the skin, which shone in the ghostly lustre of death. I shrieked, when it became apparent that the corruption of nature had been adorned in a garment, of an unusual depth of color. It was not the usual black, of the woven shroud, but rather it felt to be of the wondrous skies of Duat. Lowering its altitude in the strange manner of pleasant precept, I felt its cold breath caressing my skin, as it hissed! I thought that maybe, to fixate the vision, upon the hearthfire would provide wealthy distraction, from its unhealthy grey orbs, but all was in vain, in the presence of death! I surrendered to the dread which now poured fourth into my bossom, with cold torrents, when I heard it speak, with a charred voice,

"You are young, and yet you must no longer live. I give you life at unpleasant cost, which is to see" and to this, I struggled from my couch, but the thing, it grasped my neck with such violent intensity, that I winced, partly at the agony, and greatly at the uncanny mastery of semblance, at each tapestry of its distortion. I felt, weak and my ferment was in vain, until my sentience collapsed into an abundant darkness, but I lived to see the morning, and have since seen, what lies in the unfathomable prospect of my demise!