The rim was jagged and It tore my scrubs as I pulled myself through, thank god it didn't scratch me. It was wet in there, and it smelled like an old fish tank. The walls felt like soft peaches, and there were little holes everywhere. I looked inside one, and I saw inside a family house. A portrait of Douglass MacArthur was hanging on the wall.
I saw a flash, and a mushroom cloud in the window.
I'm blind in that eye now.
Kept walking. The deep holes got bigger and when the light from the hole was gone the portholes glow was all that kept things from soft, pitch black darkness
Out of every single one is a cold hate to go up your spine without any reason at all, to let you get yourself in a spot of rage and stoke it all the time but you don't know why. A lone archer isn't supposed to be able to topple Camelot. It had to more important, an uncountable volley from every conceivable nook, cranny, or sewer grate right into the Symbol. There is one thing that can make everyone feel that hate, that blind rage, every single one of them stemming from this snapped continuum point. I go deeper. Even the small hole's beams of light went away. Each one projected every possible terrible future in a twisted dystopian kaleidoscopic light show.
It thinks only to Secure itself, leaving us to show them the way through the valley of mines with our blood.
It Contains the aspirations of mortals everywhere to be greater than just human resources
It Protects itself at the expense of all else, all that matters is continued survival and preserving the status quo.
Normalcy is the Conspiracy's founding lie.