Wheeling Gull Isle dawning

at the lip of the cave,

bloated brain brought the skull down onto paws. dull eyes were mirrors, less a gaze. they reflected the world back at itself, ridiculing it with the statement of its reflection.

if they had expected a corpse to self-flagellate, their own depravity was mundane. 

it was the canonical hours, and the first of the seven prayers. the corpse would have not reacted to them, standard as they were, had the preacher's voice not been joined by another.

then another...

and another...

it found its ears had tilted towards the sound. sharply embittered, it sneered at nothing and turned its head.

let them sing.

the greatest echo dies as eventually as the smallest cry.