Sandwich Stoutaxe

Notice now the single achingly beautiful endless scream pouring forth from the sacred wound that is the VOID. On the first day, the heavens met, disagreed, and the sky fell. This is a sanctuary of lush abstraction. At first there was only the apprehension of a question. Predictable, it would always be the same. I knew the question, but not the asker. Then they began to exist, marching forward, presenting their tokens. I took each one tenderly, holding it up to the light and casting it to the floor to make it useless. If the shadows of the shards aligned with the sum of the signs in the ledger, then I heard their question. If it broke inauspiciously, I turned them away even as they spoke. They came at odd times and moments. At times I would be alone for hours before a creeping supplicant would tremble forward out of the darkness. At other times a hundred thousand thousand of them would arrive in a second, pouring forth from the gates of the first FLESH. Each question the same, except when it wasn't, when the students of the blasphemous conflagration tried to trip me up with clever words and misshapen signs. I only answered one question, but each answer was different, else why the token? Why the throng? Only a forgetful fool or a person on the verge of becoming someone new would ask twice, but everyone asked once.At last they overwhelmed me. My memory began to fail, my ears numb with the ringing of a single question. I knew death would be quick, if I agreed to step down, they would allow me to sink into dreamless sleep of my own accord. If I fought, or if I was too deranged to hear their demands, I would get a slim knife in the back from the one who watched. Then the one who watched would observe my corpse, and remake me, innocent and new, retaining the records, but not the body or the memory. It had happened before. It would again. It was happening now.