In places where The World and the world meet through thin membranes made of time and place, things are always strange.
It was, it is and it could be tumble together and smear.
These are the places where The Innocent sense a stillness compressed into a spot of darkness or the air is silent, save for the scuttle of some single unfortunate thing. Time stalls, it jerks like a bad spot in a video stream.
The Innocent know in their guts to turn and leave. They wander away, holding their bellies in the place where time sense is felt or with hands cupped over genitals like those waking from a coma. Things are as they were a moment ago, but they aren’t, things were never the same were they?
The Warriors step through through these thin places. Those who battle without talismans or who are not civilized enough to deal with The Doormen. The Warriors drag the light across time, what was lit becomes dim and tenuous and is resolved into The World.
The Beholder only sees. They stood and stare. They see as is their job, they only see and wander away to wait to see the monsters and wickedness that crawls from The World. What The Beholder sees, The Generist fuels.
Those places, these places must be hidden. Of course, they must be tucked in wild places in the Congo or in the deep secret caves in the Andes. That would be only right. That is only fair.
The World doesn’t care about right or fair. The World peers out from where it pleases. On sidewalks at high noon in London. In storm cellars in Kansas. Where the membrane is thin, where the Shadows ease out and cavort and touch, this place is all places and The World and the world mingle.
They say these places, this place in the suburban basement or apartment wall, in the shadow of a child- are what they are and will continue to do what they do without regret for what they have done.
The World pushes, spreads and reaches for the burning light it is and the hot breath of avarice and the fiery lover of our most solitary, sordid dreams. The world sighs and trembles like the sweetest ingenue with the first touch of a lover.
Humanity and the associated and other beings, have always been the decorations on the skins of the world and The World. Both of these places, with their accessory beings are singular and not. Together and not. They are now and they were then. They are the bent of time, the hour that passed while a human man blinked.
These are only two of the directions things are pulled in constantly, only two of the vying suitors trying for the attention of time and space. Only two of starved lovers waiting to devour their prey.
When you feel that pull in your gut, the unreasonable frisson of fear as the shadow moves from your left to your right in a blink, remember this, it’s only a moment that was gone before right now. Time and place are only here for the moment it takes to feel them, but the dangers that lurk beyond the thin places and deep inside five minutes ago are what we must truly be afraid of.
This is heavy, heavy experimentation.