Silence that would be thunderous if not for the insistent dripping of water, assuming that such hideously congealed sludge even deserves the name. A rank smell, an awful smell, the kind of smell that drives hardened soldiers to acts of self-mutilation. Basement anti-olfactory surgery, pliers and a standard issue knife. Such is not my current occupation, although the thought has crossed my mind. I'm about to indulge in something much more vile, a deeper crime against my own humanity, such as it remains. But I haven't yet begun.


Two Cowering Clay Statues