In Promo by The Sandman

Close your eyes…

Go to sleep.

Imagine a small, insignificant creature. Skin, scales, feathers – it matters not. Having been mortally wounded and then picked at by scavengers, the pitiful animal has managed to evade danger, crawling in a vain attempt to escape death.
Succumbing to its injuries, the lowly critter perishes, leaving a trail of suffering behind it in the dirt.

Vultures and hyenas devour the remains. Anything left rots away, leaving behind only bones.

Wind and rain blows and washes sediment over the bones. Layer upon layer of mud, silt, and sand gradually buries them completely.

As more and more sediment is deposited on top, pressure compacts the layers at the bottom, turning them into rock.

Water seeps between the cracks, slowly dissolving the bones, and filling the resulting cavity with mineral crystals, like a cast.

Natural movement of the earth, coupled with violent events, like earthquakes, pushes the mould to the surface, encased in stone.

Erosion wears away at the rocky housing, revealing the fossil contained within.

Of course, you know all about fossils…

Baking under the scorching sun with bloody knees and blistered hands, you frantically and fruitlessly dig.

Curating a collection which any museum would envy, you’re still missing the final piece of the puzzle. You’ve a display case reserved, yet it stands empty.

Trenches and holes surround you, having long since lost yourself in a maze of anguish, leaving behind you a trail of torment.

Unable to move on and look to the future, you bury your head in the sand, obsessing over the past, desperate to relive it – to never have to leave it.

Your wounds never truly healed, but the vultures and hyenas of The Slaughterhouse reopened your scars, peeling scraps of flesh from your bones until you were unrecognisable, committing deeds that you could never have dreamt of upon arriving.

Though you continue to scratch and claw, you know the end is nigh, as you look the reaper in the eye.

I’ll let the scavengers, like Sigil, feast on what’s left. When only your skeleton litters the canvas, I’ll blanket it, burying it under layer upon layer of sand.

Exerting unimaginable pressure, I’ll have you between a rock and a hard place.

As the last droplets of moisture crystallise within your bones, forever preserving your form, I’ll drag you violently back to the surface.

Splitting you open, I’ll lay bare to the world your fossil – a perfect replica and permanent record of your suffering at my hand.

Countless such specimens litter the rolling, red, sandy banks in my desert of destruction, but yours will be my centre-piece, filling my empty cabinet.

Don’t worry: I won’t let them forget you. Just as your name begins to fade from consciousness, I’ll place the ghost of your legacy on exhibit, for all to see.
I’ll tell them how you fought valiantly, to the bitter end.

When the visitors stop coming, I’ll place you back on the shelf – next to your dear, old man.

Sweet dreams, Voynich.

One, two, Sandman’s comin’ for you…