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[A dark barley visible meadow at the precise moment the first rays of dawn begin to color the dark sky]

Its barely dim outside.
Which new day starts today?
Its been a few since this bender
started, let us be honest.

The forrest in which you lay seems familiar, but your feet never touched a single grassroot, that form the meadow basking in the faint bronze shimmer forming in the clouds of the still night colored sky. 

Why is this place so known to you?

 This thought alone is enough to send a shiver down your spine, the sensation needs no help from the dozen or so different sources of disembodied whispers pouring from the most peculiar places; some seem to speak their televison static language from the old and scratched up bark of the lightly swaying trees, others hum their radio fog at you from the cracks in the Karst sediments and assorted boulders, the last and most persistant is the faint beep that reminds you a little of the sound of an alarm that warns of catasthropy and has no discernible source.

Alarm bells rise in volume and it appears that they will  never stop again for as long as you walk this Earth, before they come to a close with a boom so great, you feel it shake the core of your soul. After that everything is quiet, the forrest seems normal and the light breeze draws forth feelings of wellbeing and safety. Those feelings soon will soon show themselves to be misleading.

[An abandoned square thats been taken back by shrubs and Karst forrest trees. The sky seems to be of a color so vividly red and intensely agressive, that you can't but wonder if this is all a strange dream, the same breeze that before filled you with warmth and joy now shows you that everything is your perception of reality.]

The shivers no longer reside in only your spine as you feel them shake your whole body, the crawls remind you of hundred of ants making their way up and down your chemically tainted body.
You scrape at your own skin, breaking it at points, trying to rid yourself of the scratching menace. The air feels with an almost audible chanting and you see a tribe of shadowy figures setting up camp. As they light their fire you spot a man so slender he reminds you of spiders and his only purpose appears to be that of making sure the black vinyl of records changes place in the two piles infront of him. He soon begins to bore you and you set your eyes upon the tents of the camp far in the distance, They started to send you smoke singals that tell you stories of plots set to bring about your fall.
The whispers grow again as you see the shadows form into the shape of a cloaked man. He tips his wide hat to you before everything fades to black.

M O D E R A T I O N is KEY.


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