They all laughed like idiots. About the dark chants coming from the leaking deathstill, and the purple sky, and then the worm that was my friend and that talked to me about things terrible and impossible to understand.
Spice will do that to you, they said. As if it was just some trippy drug-fueled dream. Yes, it was a dream! But it had been infected with something. A purpose. Something greater than me. That is reaching out. Voices from another time. From another place.
They couldn't possibly understand that. Their mind is small. They are no better than the flesh they sell. No better than animals.