It is a flagellating gamete springing forth from a dense bolus of three-hundred-million dying cells and thrashing through a heaving wilderness in pitch darkness. It is a nesting zygote breaching the zona pellucida and falling like a pollen spore from the fallopian branch. It is a cleaving conceptus trailing villi through the watery vesicle and latching onto the uteral wall. It is an atavistically reptilian prefoetal rudiment of human life. It is a screaming homunculus ripped from the bloody host and held up by the ankles for a slap on the podex. It is a walking shadow sprung from the stinking swamps of Gondwanaland. It is a trajectory whose course is an asymptote tending to terminus in bodily death amid the heavily knelling of dark iron bells.

O Kyrie eleison!

Christe eleison!

Kyrie eleison!

Dies Irae!

O horror, horror, horror!

It is a rampant chimera, argus-eyed, and all the eyes look within, and the eyes are like unto orbs of smouldering dross, and each pupil is like unto the eye of a hurricane, and the eye lashes like unto the cilia of a Venus Fly-trap, and out of the eyes proceed lightnings and thunderings and voices, and the fingers writhe wildly in the air, and they are like unto vines, and the hair like unto flailing kelp, and round about it a rainbow in sight like unto an emerald, and it sleeps neither in the day, nor in the night, but with a voice like unto the sound of the shrieking of the wind through the pines, it kneels at the door all day and all night saying, ‘Holy! Holy! Holy is the Lord!’

Ulrich Kinbote.
H.L.