White. All white. Burning white. Up, down, right, left, all around me, everywhere, nothing but limitless white. My eyes hurt with the soft but ever-present luminosity, but my eyes wouldn’t close. I waited, the tears pouring down my cheeks, for the voice. This was how it always was, though this place was new. When they wanted to speak, when they wanted my attention, I would find myself in one of the rooms, a place without space or form, a place of concept, idea. It’s hard to explain unless you have been there.
I went to the underworld this way, and felt myself in the agonizing comfort of the grave which is all graves. R’lyeh beckoned me, once, and I swear I smelt Cthulhu’s breath. Heaven and Hell have vouchsafed me hints of their eternal justice. Always, a message. Some word to go to someone or some people. Here, in the white room, silence, all silence and no time; only white.
I think it is the desert, or not. A desert is a living type of thing. It is harsh, but alive. There are flowers in the desert. You can find a well, deep, and there’s something sweet to that water. This is something that is in the desert without all the good. No rain ever thunders here, no cloud casts a shadow. No sun, either, scorches you. Just emptiness. White, burning white, blinding…
To whom it may concern, there is silence in the desert, but it costs your eyes. They go for the eyes first.
Tale Told 