A faint twinkling, gold, in an echo through recesses vast and obscene. There it ricochets off these barriers, subsiding into gloom and dust. Pause for click and swing. Here again it rears, slightly more pronounced than before, yet still ever so soft. Barely an incandescence. Minor thuddings provide harmonic root to this haunt.
A sheer black void. There is no end, no beginning. Black upon black, fading on and on into infinity... darker than even absolute shades, a shadow in epitome. This is the placid occupancy, content with the state of being. Black... so solidly black. Then, a slim yellow line.
Louder now, but softer than a whisper. The twinkle gleams meekly through void and vapor, a vacuous tool for the vital ones. The click renewed into place, another barrier from which to careen. A cessation of thudding. The frequency dangles, caught within an inescapable lie of self-creation. Suspended, it leers upon the brethren. Oh, fellows! Have you no shame in decadence? And all shall reply, no, for we are the gilded. Louder still, still pianissimo.
The line fades. Black upon black in endless procreation. A meandering of hues. Just as suddenly in returning, broader than before. This herald is unwanted, beseeched to leave the void. In proclamation of defiance, lingering. A dim orange suffuse eclipses our internal monologue. Fall to black, ever void as before.
A brief crescendo, bravado wearing coats of purple and gold. This sound now echoes throughout creation, a perfectly minor yet perfectly omnipresent disruption to this most natural of unnatures. Order spirals in a pentagonal facsimile. Slightly louder than before.
Blackest of black. Red. Just a single speck upon our canvas. Yet as sure as it may be miniscule, it encompasses all. Obsessing now, the black cannot bring clarity to foreground. Just a little red. A little corruption in this vacuum. Just a little. And now a line, of a brighter yellow than before, though emaciated to a larger degree. Unacceptable, the black shudders. You cannot perch here in our eldest of ways. The line broadens to prior specifications, and to follow suit, the red is made globule. This metamorphosis complete, all hope is lost. The black bides, prepared for the inevitable spiral to shift.
Louder and louder. Barely audible yet, this golden trinket. Oh, how the twinkling wanders. In and out. In and out. No privay intact, not even to the cedar and pine. A screech for relaxation. Return to near silence, just the twinkle in all unholy majesty.
Black crossed in yellow and orange. Hither and thither a red colony, aberrant. Black swallows, engulfing shades that still persist by some inane mitosis of pigmentation. The horde is impossible, a juggernaught absolute and myriad. An atom of red fades to green, now blue, now purple. This stark dissonance grates nerves. The black waits, less content than ever. Soon...
The twinkle reaches absurdity. A soft jangle just below dominance, it somehow manages an enrapture to claim kin of sirens. Echoing incessantly upon itself, utterly oblivious of pain and suffering. Of thought and deed. A motion in perpetuum, fueled by a kinetic pulse of autogenesis.
Black, buried in yellows and organes. The chains break. Now liquid red. Great spurts of violent propulsion. Frenzied.
The twinkle is silenced.
Black. Blacker than the darkest of pits, this void. What has been done? Shadow upon shadow, the creases fold into a smile. Flashes of blue and white, yet always that smile from void.
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