Fleeing flogging fledgeling gargoyles made of soap sing glorious songs of emptiness and cry blissful tears of blood.
At their feet, the city bustles on, like some made machine of permanent mayhem.
There are purple clouds under a cobalt-blue sky – the promise of redeeming, cleansing rain – but still the suffering and pain and despair keep pilling up on the sidewalks.
The arcane seers feel helpless and overwhelmed and pray for the ancient god's kind compassion.
They know this is the serpent's time. It's forked tongue fills the air with almost inaudible sounds of conjuring – her minions of wrath and foul breath are being summoned.
Hope is now but a distant dim light, like a candle, stubbornly lit on the deck of a ship amidst a storm, every element conspiring and using it's every strength and vile trickery to extinguish it.
Will some ray of Sun be able to breakthrough and give us a tiny shred of fortitude to go on?
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