posted on Aug, 25 2017 @ 06:29 PM
Skulls Unlimited | by Fiada Fey
He’d been spending a lot of time lately wandering through the cemetery near his apartment, wondering what, if anything, all those dead people
accomplished with their lives, but mostly just gazing enviously at the graves. All too often he had to suppress the urge to dig up a coffin and make
himself at home.
Tired of life. Tired of this world. Psychedelic drugs shot his brains into outer space. Now he stands in his own shadow and wonders why it’s
Lately he’s been living in a nightmare of delusions and hallucinations — hearing demonic voices, seeing strange “shadow beings” and having
disturbing montage-like visions of horribly disfigured faces. He claimed that during a magic-mushroom trip his soul had been sucked from his body by a
huge “satanic vacuum” and he operated under the assumption that the universe was going to continue #ing with him indefinitely.
“All existence is infected,” he whispered into his microcassette recorder, huddled in the bedroom closet chain-smoking cigarettes with a blanket
covering all but his head. “Order falls victim to chaos, entropy increases and the world is running down.”
He’d smoke pot and log long hours scratching out odd science-fiction stories in his notebook, writing late into the night about insanity-inducing
Martian laser rays, drug-demented nihilist astronauts, malfunctioning robots with sick sexual proclivities. He told a friend, “Writing is an escape
hatch. It’s the only way I can separate myself from the prevailing wretchedness of life on this planet. I don’t belong in this world. I belong in
a world full of mystic powers, supernatural dream lasers spewing heavenly pyrotechnics.”
On an almost daily basis he’d become trapped in an anxiety loop, brain skipping like a scratched CD, dreadful macabre nightmare notions assailing
him one after the other, the horror of existence raging full-throttle inside. His research into occult history had uncovered an ancient evil still
working its will on the world. “Only the names and strategies change,” he thought, “but it’s the same sinister war.”
The dark cloud of doom that had enveloped his life recently was showing no signs of abating— his waking nightmare intensified constantly and the
Void seemed to creep a little bit closer all the time.
He spent all afternoon sitting silently in a culvert, having taken three Vicodin and drifted into a dreamy, contemplative frame of mind. Mostly he
just thought about his funeral and all the little flourishes he’d like to have. “Definitely I want a fog machine and heavy metal music, possibly a
strobe light and some multicolored lasers,” he whispered into the microcassette recorder as twilight fell, “but I have yet to decide on a coffin
or even where exactly I want friends and family to detonate it.”