Ambiance and Objective Altruism 3

Echoing among the stones is a choir of monks; a choir whos’ song resinates the mood of the Divine. Agelessness; strength; power; and immortality. Set high above the small and weary eyes of the pathetic, squirming, human race rests the mind of a King. His conscious exists much like a storm cloud; hanging high above the world in swirling and private patterns, tossing thunder and lightning down at random, just to hear the sound of it…or perhaps simply because the accumulitive energies -forced- them down… reguardless, there is still pleasure in in any pinnacle of action. At the feet of the king are seven maids with fair skin, golden hair, and fearful-dead eyes despite their age. The lowest chords of the monks seem to rest heavily on the bare shoulders of these daughters of eve, misbegotton by their misfortunate genetic roots. The king, while observing the simple beauty of his own hand and forearm, observes it then reach down to clutch a handfull of the golden hair and stuff it in his lap. Between his hand and his length he considers the brain therein, and hope’s to God it’s storming with as much hate and despair as his own. Through choking and gurgling sounds he observes the delicate deffinition of the muscles in her arms and shoulders as they twitch; the smooth pallor of her skin visable through open garments; the long living curve that journies down her body, across his eyes; one small and delicate foot bunching, twisting, and periodically slapping down against the steps. Lightning strikes. Blood spills, and bones snap. The voces of the monks rise and fall, and continue on.