Christopher Ingham Rage Against the Void

Rage Against the Void Christopher Ingham

There was a town deep in the undergrowth. There was no hair nor whisper of a want, a greed, nor oath. The carcasses of conifers lied splayed on the forest floor undying. The soil spoke of black, viscous foreshadowing, the corpse of that land will fuel the conflict of another era’s dying. There the atmosphere had mutated the residents of the tree line, which crawled with no significance. There in that primordial fever dream hellfire rained with fury and indifference. There is a town built on bones and secession. The desires of societal phantoms corrupt natural progression. The farm the town once was has festered into a spasming suburb failing mysteriously. The currency, transport, and concentration are murky carbonizations of underlying idiocy. Here things that waddle around are compassionate and caring though naïve. Here there is a superposition of two starkly contrast potentials which slowly unweave. The city might be breathless. The people might linger headless. The air might be solid and scorching. The land might be toxic and infertile, and those who subside on it will keep on searching. For answers to their questions might be rediscovered amongst the rubble. For this might be avoided and such their trouble. There will be a town that grew from the dirt and gravel into a metropolis. The worries of long ago will have been deserted, so long to the necropolis. The visage of the region will be green and silver, sustainable and succinct. The people will be delighted, euphoric, and pleased, for they are not extinct. Glory to the logical, the kind, and commanding, glory bestowed encroaching. Glory to the calm, cool, and collected, glory to the future fast approaching.