The second installment of "The Black Sun" saga
Ground Zero, written by Twisted Phobia
Nine years passed after the catastrophic incident.
Space without a name, unlocated, infinite,
covered with ashes, cracked asphalt, dust.
Space like an enormous, deserted parking lot stretched to the horizon.
It's dark. The only source of light is dying sun
trying to get through the air, which can be cut by a knife.
Air so dense, fat, like an old butter.
I don't know what will happen,
I'd like to ask but nobody will respond, nobody wants to talk.
It's like describing this threat would make it closer step by step.
We're busy waiting and keeping quiet. Bitter cold.
Sound is hiding under surrounding's skin, the ground, paint on the walls.
Colors are saturated differently, faded, weaker.
Everything is moving slower.
- Everything is gonna be okay - says the shadow.
We're going outside. It seems it is not okay. And it will never be.
The city is sick. I can feel it,
under the pavement a bad stomach content pulsates, trying to get away,
leak and cover everything with a 2-fingers tall fat layer.
The world looks like a color negative game board.
Dark shadows, grey lines, painting on a black background.
The hand who paints it doesn't clap, doesn't greet,
doesn't thumb up, doesn't forgive.
The hand of a crazy child. The light gives a feeling of a structure,
a plan, a map, but after a moment of looking, it changes to mirage.
Dust particles are starting to dance, changing their place,
everything is moving, blurring, spoiling.
The city looks like a void, which it is indeed. It's a teethless cave.
The lights are afterimages of those swallowed by a war.
- Everything is a matter of perspective - says the shadow.
Nothing is a matter of perspective.
It's a concrete ecosystem which we are a part of.
Even if I was an observer up high in the atmosphere.
Deep down there, under the asphalt, frozen-cold,
sprinkled with sand, decorated with garbage, puke, blood and ash.
Under the ground there's a black, pulsating grease
and I'm permanently attached to that asphalt,
with invisible rope implanted to my neck.
The implantation area is infected, burns like hell.
Leftovers of a dying hope are fading with every second...
twistedphobia.bandcamp.com