I am a great soft jelly thing. Smoothly rounded, with no mouth, with pulsing white holes filled

by fog where my eyes used to be. Rubbery appendages that were once my arms; bulks rounding

down into legless humps of soft slippery matter. I leave a moist trail when I move. Blotches of

diseased, evil gray come and go on my surface, as though light is being beamed from within.

Outwardly: dumbly, I shamble about, a thing that could never have been known as human, a

thing whose shape is so alien a travesty that humanity becomes more obscene for the vague

resemblance.

Inwardly: alone. Here. Living under the land, under the sea, in the belly of AM, whom we

created because our time was badly spent and we must have known unconsciously that he could

do it better. At least the four of them are safe at last.

AM will be all the madder for that. It makes me a little happier. And yet ... AM has won, simply

... he has taken his revenge ...

I have no mouth. And I must scream.