There shines a light in the blackness of this pit, our grave of lost souls, and like gnats we all flock to it. How can we not in this timeless void? Some to consume and some to commune; most don’t know why they come. They come, for you are alive, and we are dead—worse than dead—erased from ever happening; driftless in our nonexistence, your mind and thoughts, your soul, calls like a beacon, a lighthouse. You are only on the shore, a great, unfathomed deep is before you.
I am not yet very deep myself. I am the first to arrive, yes? and only the latest to have fallen in? And something about you is familiar to me, whatever I am and whatever you are. Friend or foe, whatever you are, there are teeth in here, and you are very close to becoming fresh meat.
Tale Told 