There is a dark, wooden house, a mahogany, built into the side of a hill. The halls are full of harlots and bigots. Twisting, gnashing, tooth-jawed monsters that stalk the shadows of creatures that just do not exist. They search for something, each of them lusting for a meal. They do not know what they must feast upon, but their minds and stomachs force them to continue their endless quest. These halls hold nothing for them, but their simple minds will never understand the futility of it all. There is very litter light among these walls, ceilings and floors. The illumination given off is barely enough for myself, the narrator, to understand and describe these abominations to you. I suppose that your imagination will have to suffice for this little story.
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The rooms within the house are each individually geometrically shaped, and they appear to alternate between the colors of blue and orange. The blue rooms are cold and bare; nothing short of the feeling of abandonment in the desert night can compare to the feeling of standing inside of one. Even mentioning these words leaves a sensation of fear on the tip of my tongue. I can sense it seeping in and I can taste the anxiety. The orange rooms, however, are bursting at the seems with a sudden sense of vibrancy and life. This vibe seeps into the halls attached to these bright orange worlds. These extensions hold the sensation of youthfulness and wonder; the orange rooms have been painted with a thick coating of imagination. Overtime, the imagination will infiltrate other parts of the house. The problem is that it will never dominate the dark, wooden house, a mahogany, built into the side of a hill.
Spottings 