Flip the Ace of Ruin, in your life.

It’s not your choice, not your life, not your fault…

Fog follows an ancient threat.

Dark Water rises and false prophets drink deep.

Putrescent radiation breeds the darkness inside of every victim.

The Black Signal broadcasts blasphemous algorithms, infecting all ears.

It creeps in through the crawly cracks of 3 AM.

That weird dimension.

There are thoughts that can only hatch in the human skull at 3 AM.

However… It is always 3 AM somewhere.

It is happening right now. A woman wakes with a headache. She seeks aspirin in the
bathroom.
Black mold grows thick on the wall tiles. The stain forms a face. She hears a terrible howling
from the sink drain. She bends to listen…
When she looks up, she does not recognise the reflection in the mirror. The face in the stain
smiles.
Night after night she listens to the howling in the pipes. It gains a curdling cadence. She hums
along. She can almost sing the words. She scratches the pimples dotting her soul. They swell
to boils. They burst, revealing new eyes. The eyes show her unutterable truths.

Soon, she sticks thumb tacks into her tongue so she can better explain these truths to the
weeping children whose beds she hides under….

It is always 3 AM in the Darkness.

It is liquid 3 AM, black and dripping.

Anti-luminosity that crucifies sentience. You cannot even see most of it.

How will you escape? How do you hobble through this world on three tiny dimensions? It
flows across time, a disease floating on the Collective Unconcious.

Sumerians called it the Eater.

In Babylon they named it Nergal's Essence.

Dead tongues dubbed it the Devouring Plague

The Dark Homunculus.

Sometimes floating as oil, sometimes vapour, invisible waves, pollution, roiling black storms,
a viral rhyme. The flesh mutates. The mind boils to bilious madness. All lucid thoughts to slay.

But the Darkness pours, as dark dreams, directly into the heads of the insane and sadistic.

Somewhere, a trucker reads alien letters carved into the bathroom stall walls of a truck stop.
He cannot look away. He spreads the scrawl in every stop on his route, carving it into the
stalls. He itches and he scratches. Others see the letters. They itch. They scratch. He
scratches his face, draws the runes in red with his box knife. His head is filled full of writhing
lampreys.

But the Darkness is only the transmitted, not the transmitter - the excremental shadow of
something else.

What dreamt it? What stirs and sputters and lurks, as big as planets, in the infinite shade
between cancer cells? Have you seen them? Have they noticed you noticing them? Once you
see the hungry sky, it sees you.

“Friedrich Nietzsche, is that what you meant?

I do not want to look any more. DON’T LOOK AT ME!”, said some poor soul…

Now, he is a monster facing you… Just because he saw and he has been seen…