Inthe timeless fog that trembles inthe dead body that's eroded, and perched with wood as the pillars of a crying evernight. Steel is a burning generator of ash, of the lost and the loved ones, that turn into pale slaves and then to energy for the teeths.
Within the pulsing structure, a man turned into an organ eater temporally dwelled in a room, the dead room. The dead room within swirled with worms in anxiety. And he, the man is sitted on a bed. The beds blankets were a dry agony. And scriptures were being written on a phantoms paper, wobbling. The presence was like a hallow of eternal dread.
"The cathedral Is cursed, and I am waiting for a Distortion, there is no god or goddess inthis no more, only the nipping system and orders of verses."
The sun in rage cried with blood, It's geode of darkness begins to frown and The time hesitantly chimed. It spits blood for distortions to be born again inthis month.
From the man's feet to the plane white glistening door in motion, a groaning distortion caressed the spiralling hallway. It moaned and mourned with a dying star gaze. It's body a resembles of female human, but shriveled arms Clung Possessively to its pale breasts, head and hips of spikes like gray bones. Four Legs was it's filter of grace, and its mouth was a parasites slit, that leaks cold saliva.
The man sensed the distortion, because the worms that trembled with anxiety beneath the timeless fog, halted their breaths and trembling forms. The tower panes mirrored a blurry image of two lovers, two woman who were in a lesbian relationship, who murdered each other in ritual of obsessive drug private festival and engagement. This was what caused the female distortions existence, to be born inthe first place, but that was the source of the chaos That triggered Anul wombs. The distortion bites it's way to where the man is, because it sensed a soul, a human.
"The distortion... is here." The man muttered words a breath of fearful Uncertainty.
"Hope I survive..."
The fragments start to scream, and the cold sighed to hiding. The man inks the paper that he was writing, into a claw. Which was an orchestration of erotic diamond and black puffs of murmurs. Retro hugged the timeless fog, and broken were the blues of insanity.
Inside the man's minds, of plasma wires like flesh, sparked a smoke hazard of a thready mouth, a voice of the former host. The man suddenly vibrates with a choir of intimate headaches, and ruins of shattered hearts.
"The distortion cries inside, yet don't hold back, Polo. Embrace the knashing claw, the breath of its fallen ancestors, Open it's slit, reframe the skin and pollute it..."
"Feel the knashing claw... Feel the breath of its fallen... Feel the knashing claw... Feel the breath of its fallen..."
The distortions hands of infertile decay, twisted with a slithering crack. It's faceless head slowly turning. It's legs entering the timeless fog, yelping with mock.
"I-I... a-am...co...coming... foo...r ... youuuuu..."
Pant... Pant...
The man lingered to the distortion in a shaking jog, bouncing was his shadow. The claw dressed on his right hand, bleeds with hunger. The bones of it cracked, and gave the distortions hands on its pale breasts, a metal gusto. The distortion wreathed with a wiggling agony, It's slit on its faceless face widening with more aggressive whispers. It's shaking shadow a bleak manifestation of sorrow.
The man stumbles back as the distortions widened slit, releases tounges like chainsaws, swirling like whips and grinding clowns. Grinding with snapping whips onthe walls, and the first tower window, which is like a fake bon of cathedral Intervention. The black sun only grinned with its depression and abyss, above the man's stumbled form. Gas within becomes a Deceptive seductive heat, painting a Portrait of stolen hope.
With his left hand, the man covers half of his face with a mask. Tugging it to prevent his nostrils to inhale too much of the frustrated gas. The distortion lashes again with its many screaming tounges, it's folds of it's slit releasing tiny tenticle sloths, having skin made of guns, spiky glass teeths, and ant legs that was it's Fur.
The man stands up from his stumbled form. He lunges to the side, to avoid the creeping tiny recently released Tenticle sloths, that move like Cockroaches in addiction.
He dodges only to the sides of the room. Since the gaps were not closed by the distortions size. A purple blaze of spores emulate from the claws and with this, the claws have regained its breath. The purple blaze brimming from claws is the only loom inthe room, a purples phantom glaze. The man lands his hand onthe fog covered floor. Webs of burns clung to the tenticle sloths and their hunger for blood and brains, released from the claw. They melt like rotten meat, with poison and mucus. The burning webs with purple claims and melting affect, affected the silenced worms that were inthe fog, Being captured by The blazing webs in a trail of its patterns.
Two cathedral panes crack and echo from the distortions bodyweight bull like charges.The man's breath becomes dry slowly. His legs slowly get tired, as he waits the claw to rejuvenate it's breath again. With each doge, the man becomes more and more desperate, using the bed to shield himself from the brutal slithering tounge lashes.
The moment the man takes a few breaths for seconds, a throat deep voice knocks in his mind once again, and the claw that dressed his right hand, begins to sing a broken heavy tune.
"May the breath of fallen gods praise your desperate will... And the claw, your tomorrow..."
Pant... pant...
The distortion screams with colossal rage, increasing its eeri sultry whips with aggression. The mans shield, which was the bed, shreds into feathers and scattered wool from the Distortions impact. He widens his eyes and twists to the right corner in act of fear, and rolls near the already broken cathedral windows, creating a distance from the distortion.
"So close... That was so close... Too close... Very close..."
Pant... Pant...
The claw from his right hand blazes once more, with purple spores again. The mirrors close its function and the man once again, places his hand onthe fog covered floor and this time, thick webs instead of thin purple energy, clings to the distortions fragile areas: It's waist, neck, twisted ankles and parts of its points where weak organs are reserved. The webs and the distortion initiate a heavy brawl with one another, performing a steady theatre of pain and The grim reapers Fireworks. Yet with each struggle of the distortions suppressed liberation, The webs intensify, kneading Within.
"Come on... Come on... Come on..." Gasps the man with panic.
The man gasps with choked and panic. With each desperate blink and temporary stares, the man got more desperate like a train of panic. This fueled the webs, It's purple energy is fueled by the mans pleading cries. With a final clutch, The webs teeth Away The distortions ever screams, dirt replaces it's flesh. And burns orchestrated all over it. The distortion was left with burned flesh and stripped Other worldly lingering vital organs as it collapses, Causing a tiny rumble of the floor and the man almost tripped from its impact making his presence almost falter, and soul to mismatch the intertwined black night and black day. The distortions tounges, that swirled before like chainsaw tenticles, with hunger and rage weakened and twitched.
Pant... Pant...
The energy of the webs subside back to the claw that covered the man's right hand. The claw became lucid with heat, and it's breath fatigued and so was Polo himself. He let out an exhausted sigh and heaving pain. He sits down onthe floor, leaning his back next to a wall and near the cathedral panes.