Nature never felt so alive, or rageful. Under normal circumstances Vince might have found it exhilarating, but in the ulterior present there was no lifeboat. Adrift on a spectral tide leading him deeper into the maelstrom. It made him think of the Edgar Allan Poe story Billy had suggested him read. Vince, who admired chaos from a distance, misunderstood its attraction to recklessness. Billy, who’d considered himself a nihilist, was just as incapable of gleaning anything other from it than adolescent rage. Billy might have wanted to burn down himself, the town, the world, yet could never fully grasp how to engineer it.
Here it was built in. Authentic rage which came from centuries of abuse. Fleeing into primordial lands to escape persecution. In gloaming hills and ancient caves. The slough was such a place: sediment of jurisdictions was built up. In some cases, even, the land was hexed to avoid unnecessary confrontations.
Others may pass in the light, with the sun as their guide, but once the night is ripe the walls start closing in. Narrowing corridors. Trees swaying against him that seem to be getting closer. Or Vince is losing his shit which was entirely possible. Certain he was being escorted to an early grave.
