“Laughter begets laughter! Sin begets sin!” said the voices which echoed pervasively in the mind of the guardian of the gate of the tower of the wall of the town of the city of Evanshire.

In response to this, he said aloud “Then what would herald a minor flaw to be chosen as beautiful, indeed?”

Beauty is often found within a transient burst of light which turns itself over the surrounding darkness only moments after. Its superseding ancestry is lost to the environment; however, this is not the case with most things delightfully brought on by human empowerment. Humans, being such compulsive creatures, strive for nothing less than perpetuation of order in all things, and beauty be ****** if that means changing a systematic response to something more naturally, intrinsically made to fetter in the palm of the last vestibule of temporal illusion.

Some see the animals which deem themselves superior as parasite; feeding off the presence of life and ore around their very bodies. Unbridled power given to the bearer of serendipity, humanity turns their noses up as if it were anything of their own control. Disgust is what should be shown toward such foul, obscene little things.
    
The man laughed out at the ridiculous rantings put forth by his narrator.

“Is that what you think,” he said “that we’re all just ****? Well maybe you’re right, but this world is **** impressive. Sure more than I’m deserving of.”

Just as that was said, an owl hooted somewhere in the distance. Its hoot was perceived by the guardian, but his perception was fallacious. He heard a fibrous, alien-like sound. So deeply disturbed by this was the man-guard that he fell back in his chair and lay wrought on the ground for several hours. It was not until he was awakened, by himself no less, that he took himself to try his hand at movement once more. He gently flexed, starting at the tips of his fingers and leading up to his first forearm, before he exhausted all his chakra and mustn’t have had any need to persist, for he was already standing there where he had found himself lying on the floor.

“Are you okay?” he asked himself, before realizing he was talking to a ghost and hadn’t been lying on the floor for a bit at all.

The moon had begun to set and was large and glistening in the oblique sky; its blue tint reverberated the light over the countryside, and questioned the very existence of everything excluding the reasoning behind it. However, this need not be mentioned and would be better to leave for another rant of time and loss.
A crow perched itself on the stone windowsill, which had been chipped slightly on the right edge leaving exposed brick and mortar. Just beneath the arc of the sandstone window was the nest, and the crow held in its beak a few worms which appeared to be dead. One could assume the crows effervescent green eyes were a result of secular radiation and shouldn’t be concerned or associated with the fermentation of grapes, but the guard, who is the same as the narrator and the voice in his head, knew better than to act like such a fool and knew the likes of objectivity to be a falsification of the throne. He promptly removed the eyes of the crow as to stomp on them and make a fine wine.

Alas, no gain came of this. When the captain’s right hand came wandering into the tower’s top room and found the guard, the narrator, and the spectre sit in the armchair whilst laying on the floor, holding the eyes of a crow in one hand and the soul of hearthfire in the other, he lurched out his guts and asked whether the weather outside was weather or whether it weren’t.

“What’s that?” asked the guard, before noticing the cap’n’s right hand had entered.

Upon doing so, he took the rest of the crow, eviscerated it, and made it into a finger puppet. 

“You know how the fooligan do. Look at all the fooligan, perched atop the hillside. Laughing and drinking, and clinging their rosy glasses. The sun casts a plastic glow across their cheeks. And as they smile, it seems so real. Ah, yes, the fooligan.”