Time might be immaterial here in this lonely place where the Dead and the Lost sang mourning songs. Though what they mourn exactly isn’t entirely known or necessary but mourn they do.

That arguably pointless mourning would soon be coming to an end, though. No longer would it crescendo as each new addition arrived in tatters and draped in Confusion and the echoes of Agony in its purest form. The Question would be asked soon and its Answer given in return.

Or such was the collective hope.

But all those kept here, pacing and singing while picking up the tatters of what they used to be, the Lost and the Broken and the Forgotten? They all knew hope was fickle.

Despite that knowledge, it did not stop them from having it. From latching on like a babe to tit. Even if doing so was something only the Living had need for, still those in this place strived for, obtained, and then latched onto Hope.

It was all they had left to them in this cold, miserable, timeless place.

15 thoughts on “32

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