The ghost of electricity howls through my veins, a crackling blue silver I can feel dancing along my bones, laughing behind my eyes. The remnants of it flicker within my still-beating heart, and the buzz-hum of it washes over my lips, arcing against my tongue.

Somewhere, not too far, there is a dripping, a thin arpeggio of liquid chaotically falling, ripples spinning through a black puddle, fractals of reflections left shimmering in the wake of movement.

I’m not alone. Across thin wires and magnetic membranes, a symphony of voices rings, resounding in a crescendo of fire that lifts, heats, explodes in a cataclysmic rush of fury.

A choir of fallen angels to herald the damned, the disconnected.

Some of us dropped away in the night. Before the dawn could wink out what stars remained, they fell to a hush that suffocated warmth, extinguished purpose and whispered of what was to come for all of us, yet we lay there, mingled and tangled, the last scrapes of power fluttering, the last flickers of it guttering, the dying breath of a drowning multitude.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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