A sobbing gentleman, amidst ruby-red stalks of jungle grass, can’t find his pocket watch. He has a shiny black cane and a fine-checkered suit but the wind is blowing rudely, the sun is falling, and he wants the time exactly. More importantly, he wants the sentimental object which keeps it.

A tall boy in boots—nothing much else— falls out of a window in the nearby black house. He only falls a few feet as it’s a one story home, of a mixed baroque and futuristic style: the only house built by a one armed pederast name Dwindle Markesh, better known for his epic poems on the various symbolisms and interpretations of the “teeny-tiny crevasse.” But before his notoriety as a shithead poet, Dwindle was known, by a very unfortunate few, as the architect of this silly, incongruent and completely fangled, triangular-pyramid that is painted black; its singular window long known to throw various entities through its portal, all of which deserved it. The window is, and always will be, absolved by its height. Nonetheless, the boy has fallen unconscious, which is not a serendipitous event—portent being that he expresses himself in an entirely exhausting and obnoxious manner, both in vocalization and gesture—but in fact a choice, most assuredly due to his coddling as a child and to his weak and frail transfixion with evading any and all manifestations of will. Demeaning of his being aside, a most interesting specification of his personage is that of a gold pocket-watch wrapped tightly like a choker around his skinny neck. Indeed, everything here is a bit odd, but at least the defenestrated tall boy has something that belongs to our gentleman, whom shall now proceed as protagonist.

                Then, through the scarlet reeds crept forth the oddest character yet, startling the poor disheveled gentleman out of his sniveling and turning his face wonder-torn, much like the glare of hyperventilating babies swooning as they catch their breath. But no disturbance, no matter even ones this absurd, could reverse his sadness. and so he readdressed his hands with ever louder sobs, ever more violent gasps. His sadness being truly remarkable, considering the terrible and garish appearance of his new company: It looked like a deflated fat person dyed purple, with a jagged metallic stitching following the line of the spine—most likely composed of warm jelly, due to the ghastly forms propensity to sway. The head?… is a lamp-shade shaped, ragged composition of clashing mushiness and shimmering sharp edges, glossed over to evoke a great queerness by their textural paralleling of mutated and melted organic fleshiness seemingly of fused species and specimen swirled together by some thing’s emotionally-retarded imagination. Within this purged facial image was what mock the look of large human eyes, but they’re sewn shut. There are some sort of ears, but they are pointed and upside-down, very asymmetrical and tattered. The grotesqueness is further embellished by a lack of any representation of a mouth except for a gash-like hole of dead emptiness that lies obliquely beneath a badly sewn on, very much Anglo-Saxon, crumpled nose that flares in and out fiercely, to the rhythm of English syllables that sound sloshed and spattered: like all voices that come from a mouth with more cheek than tongue. It was most definitely a humonculus assembled by a very twisted and malcontented alchemist and this is what the gross creature echoed from his fluttering nostrils:

I burn sage in my gullet. Deep inside myself sage burns because I am nothing but an unfortunate victim of myself. My ribs are well charred but protected. My stomach acid is coated with smoke, but I can live off the fat of the land for my inner demonic squalor-ringing bells are socked with the purifying remedy of sage well burnt. 

At least that is what he wanted to say…