The Hungry Ones

 

Our walls bear the faces of a simple people, their chin and browborders impelled forth by time. They travel secret winds, coupling under cover of darkness, swelling the human number until it is round. Some begin slowly, as pocks. Others quickly –children of great cataclysms. All grow.

Still, these hungry ones live and die on scant peals of fleshed attention…for who seeks companionship where there is no noise? Non.