The old thrown house, gloom, the dirt, creaking floor boards...
Behind frames of the beaten out windows sing birds, heats the sun.
The warped handrail of a ladder on the second floor... The Inscription on the punched wall - " you Will be on the ground, come " as in a song.
Hole not an attic. No, not the hatch - a hole, a black, infernal failure in the rotten sky. Dead and cold plain with brilliant indifferent eyes of deities which hate day and hate people.
They go down for the sake of rage, for the sake of war. Not with the purpose - simply to bring an essence in disgusting it a life new, even greater, cruelty. Their mouths sing each time a new song of murder, each time more terrible, more furious. Their paws bear the new instrument of torture - more powerfully and more coldly former. Their minds enjoy an enchantling spectacle of rage, that they bear to mankind. Catch, kill, gobble up...
The rotted through wooden beams of a ladder eaten by worms and bugs. The fallen off slate of a roof...
And the sky...
Is huge-terrible and is fine-deathly. A scarlet decline. A black dawn. And all the same is cold-spiteful indifferent оки from this bottomless height... Also full of hatred and...
Pains?