User blog comment:Refreshing Demise/Let's All Make a Pasta!/@comment-7706473-20140711100305

The heat of twenty odd years of stockpiled summer regret burned across my skin as she stared at me; I could not tell if what she had formed could even be called an eye, for how instable her graven image was. She whispered at me, and I did not hear the words, but the tremors under the floorboards that served as the messenger of her cacophony. Make yourself worthy, was what I think she said - but all was indistinguishable, save for the raw bubbling as my skin began to bubble and simmer around me, as if it might slough off from the comforting inferno.