Rushing River

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Notes: I was one a car ride at night, in Germany, and this is the result. Well, I think the morbid game of Legos had something to do with it too.

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It rushes past, the ghastly river, blinding and brilliant, a thousand lights of terrible sparks. Dark flashing colors as they rush by. Bobbing lights in darkness above, lime green, dull orange, blued white light of those dying. You clutch the surface of the curving band before you, feel the smoothness of faux leather, the feel of molded grips. But it is not leather, it never died, not like the river that rushes past. Breath catches in your throat at the pattering sounds, striking at unseen intervals before you. But there are no birds. Simply bugs, you tell yourself, not souls. No, not souls. Dark shapes hurtle past, in the distance are splashing endless colors of blue and violet, yet the horrid river still rushes. No matter how fast you go, it's still there. You follow the red will'o'wisps in front of you, try to calm your beating heart, ignoring the dull rumbling all around you that makes you want to scream in terror. Then they are before you, the gruesome soul river of lights, never ordered or designed. All flashes as you careen violently about, to be bruised and battered on the curving band. Then it's quiet and dark, only the drip drip of red as it falls. But you don't see it, you don't hear it fall. They rush by you no more.

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