A hundred days. A hundred years. No difference. I observe with devotion. I am firm. I reckon my hundreds, one hundred what exactly? and start afresh though not refreshed. This body will be the death of me. Wingless. A wingless biped he gave me. On this hair of stone arching impotent out over a sea of mud he set his warden, a warden I should say. Who built this bastion? a mountain of rock designed and shaped like nature's water-drop suspended from the tip of a hair of stone shot out from clean land bold above this endless churning mire.
Might they not have placed a statue here? A calcite presence with eyes of onyx turning, half man half beast, a feynd, a gorgicore or cacamand. Put the mind in, give it sight. Simple. A statue will endure a hundred full content. Not me. Consider for a moment can a monster ever be content by design or evolution. Given their appetites I mean. Why not give gruesome abominations small appetites? When they have gnawed a child's limb, chewed a woman's breast, nibbled a cock they are appeased and retire to aery lightsome leafy dells to contemplate existence or purpose, for who can order his mind in the noisome dark of filthy earthclogged hideaways cluttered with the rot and flies of discarded flesh and the bones which were expected to transport poor creatures about the place a bit longer. Look elsewhere for rectitude and comportment than monsters. Their lusts till now are designed with murderous hammer blows cracking the will in the dark caves behind their eyes.
Admittedly a statue would become a dungheap overnight before the sweep of storm ushered onto the coast in such filthy violent smog, a stinging blinding mudhail from that vile brown sludge, the Ocean of Mud whence the millennial horror will rise, the all-killer, the destroyer of messiahs, giant breaker and biter of gods.
Well then augment the statue with a crew of rat-creatures with giant hands, expert scrubbers with nails for scraping, who eat what they can't clean. Achh, nonsense. This is how my mind runs when I reach a hundred. And yet to be here, watching over this hypnotic heaving world of mud without wings. What was my crime? 'Trespass' he called it. 'You have come unlooked for to the Sanctum of the Temple of the Prime Five. You will Serve a Function or I will Recompose you Ultramontane.'
Metaphysical Acuity: 60+