Needless Things: The Funeral Home of the Glitching Skull

In the funeral home of the rising skull, where shadows drip thick and the candles dull, the air is heavy with whispers untold, and the silence is colder than tombstones of old.

Marble corridors echo with cries, as hollow-eyed mourners avert their eyes. Each coffin is carved with a grinning face, etched in a frenzy of bone-born grace.

The rising skull on the altar ascends, its hollow sockets stare without end. It marks the passage from flesh to night, a beacon of terror, a lantern of blight.

Here the priests wear veils of bone, and chant in a tongue that chills the stone. They weigh the soul on a brittle scale, against the sins that the flesh unveils.

The funeral home is no place of rest, but a crucible burning the unconfessed. A shrine to endings, to void’s control, the crown of silence , the rising skull. NNN