011

One corner leads to another as I weave my way between towering structures of pristine white marble, engulfing mirrors and elegant glass. Under an archway. Up a spiralling flight of stairs. I pick up the pace and do not care to look behind me. As I find myself deeper and deeper still into the organs of the city, more and more words start to appear. In my head, in my ears, in my thoughts, on the walls, on the floor, on the streets. Just words. Indistinguishable words. Enough words to talk about existence since before it ever was and until it ever ended. Amidst a maze so simple to enter yet too complex to ever leave I navigate blindly, fleeing the words as they continue to proliferate time and space.

The figures around me seem unperturbed by my presence. They wander without purpose. All clad in identical white robes and a plain mask to conceal all senses and emotion.

I am an outsider, unaccustomed to the world of pure passivity. A world in which the idealism of speech above all else has been executed to the highest degree. One in which the weight carried by words is far heavier than the lives of people, than their freedom or individuality. No need for arguments, no need for discussion, no need for originality or censorship or understanding or compromise. Long ago, everyone who disagreed with the evolving times was eradicated, leaving only the true Word Order to exist. A Word Order which is fundamentally ingrained into the society and mind of all who dwell. No corruption. No leadership. No change. Just words.

I stumble across a bridge and out onto a vast platform, cut off from escaping. I am surrounded by more and more of them. They speak words to me, but they have long lost any meaning. Closer and closer still they come. Speaking, without tonal change or indication.

Backed into the corner of a page I have no choice. My closed fist hurtles towards the nearest one’s face and crashes into it, knocking them to the ground. The others watch on. Their words do not cease but they show no signs of action. I turn, thrust my hand into another’s throat and wrench the oesophagus out of the neck. The limp body crashes to the floor. Exhilarated by the uncontested violence, I plough through the crowd of masked figures. Their words do not reach me as I dismantle them limb from limb. I tear through a ribcage, using my newfound tools to impale more and more. They do not run, they do not fear. They just exist to speak.

I exit the city, dripping head to toe with the blood of fools.

What good is a weapon only as powerful as its victim allows it to be?