prophet lycanthrope The sky is drab and travelled. Climbing the hill steadily, it crumbles and throbs with each movement. To the sides are a great vastness of green and life, tree after tree, become one river, each different voice merging without a ripple to form a mist, humming and wispy. Roads naturally rise, pointing out a barren pinnacle topped only by a single tree. Twisted and contorted, firing off dark, most branches at every angle, pulsing. It stands alone and frequently pure, almost pornographic in its unrelenting and ridiculous intensity. The people who went off the road to it, mainly the young or the lost, they have climbed it many times; Rested in its grooves, admiring its disposal to touch. They have named it Prophet and claim it is their foothold against the gods. And now it stands forcefully jutting out against plain and gray and ancient sky, biting like an angry mouth. 020912 what's it to you? who go blather from