Mindgrind: Meltgloom

Gloomslick drimbles down the chair, his form a slithered, oozing plight, in drippish hush, he lornly there, a lost unbeing, pooled in night.

His mind ungraps, unshapes, unglows, his hums are hushes, wet and still. The air forgets, the chair still knows— he melts, he melts, against his will.