Alan Moore - Watchmen #9

Goaded in the hall of thunder by the horn-mad giant, the lumbering, clever tongued dude seeks audience with his other, an indignant man on a false throne. Chastised yet triumphant, the dude takes his prize. But alas, hell and all its demons now have for him a quest.  "It's all a god damn fake, man. It's like Lenin said: you look for the person who will benefit, and, uh, uh, you know..."

Government spooks and tunnel rat slashers. Crack strikes again. The city has gone crooked, rained out, lost. It needs something true. Straight. Something spine light, with eagle feathers fletching. Strong enough to kill.

We are all marionettes, our lives upset, dancing over desert red, a fog of memory lost, the dead giving clues through what was said to where we began and where we are led, so alchemy wed, we find ourselves, shattered golden maidenhead, returned by strings to innocence shed.

Firing side knee supporting firing side shoulder, the rounds flame outward, evaporating into the air's thin film interference, a sickly rainbow of annihilation. Her cruel heart destroys reptile plate and horn, shocking even herself, leaving yet another slumped cadaver in her wake.

Sharp edged mirror divided, a soul savaged by the hysteric rage of addicted loss, pushes and cuts as soul screams moaning, and under crown of thorns births whimpering faith, spilling forth like a vein of blood in milk.

What was once a family entertainment turned encounter with the monstrous feminine is now tamed, taped over and enclosed, shipped safely back to shore, leaving the family unit intact. No more angry mommies. No more rebellious women. Now only sleeping harmony on the couch and a child in front of the TV.

Shatter the fucking stars and bring the world to ruin. Leave it all yellow and grey, illuminated by unknown suns, soon to die. Release the dark horde, come what may, and sail the ships from nebula to rim, ready for harm. Our enemy: life. 

Objection. Whatever one might think of my client, he's never fed an animal its own siblings or whined to the principal about broken rules. And whatever he may have done to his friend, I ask the court to see what he has been and always will be: a sad sad love struck boy who created a pond reflecting his face all over the world.

Behind the locked door, a punctured neck resembles a spear wound geyser, an eye that waits to be opened. It won't be long now. We are mere moments from midnight.

The scars of the wound resembled a map, burned white-hot into flesh, a colonizing fire outlining the lost lands, where tendrils beneath the earth wait and wait and erupt into storm.