"But the lute shall sound no more
and collect the shattered pieces
once and forever more."
To venture into the Castle of α is an unimaginable feat indeed. The combination of horror and anticipation should be the correct terms to describe such unimaginably paradoxical sentiment. There is something that allures you so much you have to terminate your very current occupation, or even curtail your unredeemable vacation of the mind just to fantasize about it, yet it dreads you so much that it fails in comparison to any shame or guilt of any kind, whether mental or downright physical and manifest. A phantasmagoric image should float in, or should it not, but rather appear in the most sudden of all fashion, of a house so sickened by the green fog in the vicinity that it chokes on its own atmosphere, yet emits such warmth that it almost would seem to be a welcoming and intriguing residence, despite being the complete antithesis.
And thus he ventures forth to this unimaginable kingdom of sorrow, with her arms open wide o the ever entwined and puzzling pathway ever leading to a chasm in a most cordial manner, or I should say, lukewarm, for none is cordial about this mere duplicitous reflection of the mind. It also does not help him (or you, the reader) that there is a storm brewing at this very moment, ready to pounce on him in the most unpredicted moment, where he least suspects anything to deviate from his plan (though plan would be very unsuitable of a word here simply because of the sheer dread that covers all vestiges of sanity and rationality). In his hand is a saw, a saw that once saved, but now gilded with the essence of sustenance, the very blood of the unknown number of "patients" perished under his fury (and insanity, though he would most despise anyone telling him thus). A very simple goal of this unsuspicious venture is to satisfy sheer curiosity, the driving force of a man to anything other than primal desires, sweeping even through the realms of α. Yet, no rational discussion can be derived from this premise solely because of the unlimited craze that emits forth from this undesirable, most disgusting encounter of him with him on the other side of the tarn of grey matter, and this narrative shall deserve, thus, no logical deductions or breakdown of any shape or form.
An unholy twang sounds from the inner chambers of the House, the void of all emotions. The engineer arrives at the door, the only door to this unfathomable suction of the substance which defines life and distinguishes between cardboard and men. No word is spoken that day, though, as they climb the stairs to the abode of evil. Oppressively humid but pretentiously decorated, yet ruined by the mist that pervades each and every piece of furniture that resides in this hell-on-earth. Alpha, the medic says, alpha is the name of the undeniable criminal that shall be executed today. Perhaps the irony is very obvious here, yet no one in the house, save α, knows of this fact, and is awake to the sanity of such analysis. Meanwhile, the storm is gathering voltage, ready to splice the sky with its blue rays of separation. The most gothic of all encounters, yet grotesquely hyperbolic and wrongly emphasized. As you shall see, the despicable and overly ornate decoration is not a coincidence, but of a reflection, or even a manifestation if you shall insist, though repetition is, though prevalent, never desired. On the second thought of any rationally sane mind, this occasion would conjure up nightmares of all sorts, not excluding the encounter of the most unholy and destructive emotion that can ever be felt. After all, it is the House of α that we are situated in, and it is α that we need to deal with at this very moment.
"Destroy the music, end the song!
The fool would say that
But a discerning ear would know
Never can a piece of music end
Never will a song of sorrows lend."
