The fourth moon was a host of doomed. Eerie caravan of broken destinies, bone-faced ape men marching towards the end of the cosmos. The stone eye watches over the convoy and draws it towards the abyss. Eight stops before the hammer blow, the triple whistle, the last thunderbolt. Tired rats accompany the horde amidst atavistic screams and dangling limbs. Bent backs dig holes into new continents that don’t exist. The din of the universal flood heralds the coming of the 700 meteors of the apocalypse.
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