there was a fountain, and from it sprang a black liquid that sizzled as it splashed upon the rough stone basin beneath. brightly colored birds would perch, a cacophony of muted colors reflected between ripples traveling across the onyx pool, yet none ever drank from the everflowing fount. a sense of pristine desecration wafted palpably from the serenity of madness dancing on the viscous surface.

occasionally a bug, idiotic in design, driven by ignorance to the flapping of multicolored feathers, drawn by instincts rendered faulty over generational decline, would land with a solid plop on the undulating surface. there was no escape from the inky pool, just an acceptance of the cruelty in chaos permeating this plane of existence, to sink solemnly under the evony waves without struggle. the birds stare unmoving until the last quivering antennae is gone, before preening themselves arrogantly once again.

he dreamt of the fountain, each night, waking thirsty and afraid. he spent his days alone in the woods, searching. until one day he failed to return. i see him, floating unafraid, slowly drifting down to rest among the bugs and leaves on the stone bottom as the darkness coats his face. i remain, unafraid.