Last night I stood in some strange town. A death circus: my charge to transfer disjointed human portions - all of which painted as horrible clowns, open and bulging - from a deeply rusted pickup and into rows on the harassed sodded hillside. My hair would often become entangled with the hair of the dead; the affixed faces swinging from side to side, looking up at me with a distant echo of evil. Black underbellies of the eyes held home to ravenous maggots, the mouths gapped and without tongue nor teeth.
Upon the placement of the final blackened abdomen a figure appeared port side, imitating the tasteful movement of a swarm of ravens, swollen with the halo of blur. Its face held no recognition for me, nor did the stride. With ease and resoluteness it brought its wings overhead, towering above and shading the hillside and all those laid upon it and as it swiftly brought wings to side once more, the hillside bloomed with fresh flesh appropriately in conjunction and breathing and humming and not one silent. The moment before my eyes opened to dawn commenced the most magnificent chorus of songbirds, thousands. They buried the echos of evil and danced through my window into the earthly morn. A mountain by the Devil's hand now at hand of animate flock.
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