The color black

The visceral nightmare was persistent, with congruous intervals of redundant, albeit horrifying imagery, dredged from the disconsolate textures of irredeemable despair. I would feel that anvil of insufferable oppression on my chest, pressing with exquisite agony, as my eyes, gazed desperately, at the rayless plumage of darkness, to no avail. After this unsolicited intrusion of ineffable onslaught, I heard the cowing of a murder, soaring above, until I seemed to regard a bleak grey sky. I was no longer in my chamber, but rather a pastureless desolation of terrene, consumed by frost. Indeed, the cold was at best, merciless and sublime, however I was numbed from this sensation by the lucid sight of grotesquery. There was a gaunt woman, with an eerily stately descent of raven hair, (giving a poignant contrast, to her pale, drawn countenance) grasping the tender head of a torpid babe. She gazed at me ardently, with those obsidian eyes, before drawing a bifurcated tongue from her abysmally dilated orifice and caressing a portion of its fleshy mass. The countenance of the babe was always hidden, by the fingers of the woman, and at this moment, she would sink her acuminate teeth into the head, and gourmendise it ravenously, while a torrent of maggots gushed from the cranium.