. . .

The wicked god eddies there, in space. It streaks itself with purple, black, and blue. It becomes a soap-film of awfulness between the world and nothingness; but the message, such as there is of it, is too subtle for humanity to grasp.

It flails out.

It flutters away from the world, away from everyone who is expecting things from space. It retreats like a wounded nightmare, clawing at the fabric of existence and dragging itself bloodily agone. It flees from people and their purposes. It is in loathing of the burden of their hopes.

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