But then there is a calling; not a summons. A mention of sinners and saints whispered in long-abandoned halls, their vibrations like a thousand tiny knives causing the cob-webs of creativity to quiver and flutter, to dance and die upon floors carpeted in ash.
I drew an mspaint of a naked woman on a cliff this afternoon, wearing an eye-patch, hair tussled in the back-blast of a rocket launcher which she holds tightly between her skirt-less thighs, all the while screaming with laughter.
The rocket launcher shoots geckos.
There is a skull by her feet, and it is weeping.
"I knew a terrible fear..."