...we could be your God.

He does not awaken. Not like he should. Living things stir into wakefulness, shaken fast or slow from dreams.

Not Bylah.

The dirt, filthy from his presence, gives birth to him. When the sun sinks low into the sky, age-old lovemaking to the horizon, he pours himself upwards. The maggots and offal drip from between ribs and the vast holes of eye sockets. They are gun barrel black, like the last yawning pits a man sees before a bullet snuffs out his life.

It does not take much to put him back together. Water, at best - it is one of the rare, few things that is as capable of taking life away as easy as it gives it.

He cannot sully it. He has tried though. Oh, how he has tried.

Whole, his composition is complete; he wanders the black of the night as a skulking white skull, disembodied, like ghosts, like shades.

Like wraiths.

In the dead of night, he sprawls himself across the land, listening to the screaming stars above him. They die, as do all things.

As all things live, so must all things die. That is the glorious nature of entropy, ouroboros.

He settles beneath trees, beneath the dirt, blasé.

He is waiting for a change.