Nightfall's Nest: Basement
It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down-
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.
It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos- crawl-
Nor fire- for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool
And yet it tasted, like them all,
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me, of mine-
As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And 'twas like midnight, some-
When everything that ticked- has stopped-
And spaces stares all around-
Or grisly frosts- first Autumn morns,
Repel the beating ground-
But most, like chaos- stopless- cool-
Without a chance, or spar-
Or even a report of land-
To justify- Despair.
--emily dickinson, 510
The birth of the Cho Gonou we all think about, or perhaps his reemergance. 1300 people are walking dead.
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