under wings of gloom and glory

the lack of updates is in no way justifiable, simply attributed to my current mental instability and tattered attempts to push these sick happenings into darker crevices of my mind's labrynth. these are undoubtedly botched attempts, as it will not go away, it will not go unnoticed.

today i was regretfully informed of cloaked, grotesque-faced figures nailing cryptic signs on the wooden poles of the most populous avenues. 'qualia contrived' or simply 'QC' were prevalant on all such inscriptions. the photo above was the clearest i could muster up in the heyday commute of my sorrounding area. of anyone locates such signs, i beg you to photograph and send them directly to my residence: the third apartment complex on the left, adjacent to the sycamores. lift the 17th cobblestone as coming from the alotted parking area and bury the specimin under a thin film of dirt. please, and thank you.

i am merely a messenger,
hunter s.

findings

this inscription was sighted and photographed at am 11th floor UArts student lounge, philadelphia pennsylvania. it is unbeknownst to me who or whom wrote this, and what their motivation was, but this has made it clear to me that i am not the sole target of this onslaught of mysticism.

i am sorry i have not been able to provide any news to you, the concerned reader, in a number of days far too high. i have been groping my way through the darkened labrynth of my mind without a lantern to guide me. i know those men in the drab gray robes, faces blurred, voices slurred, are lurking there somewhere and will reveal themselves if i continue on with the fervor i have been exerting. this whole ordeal has been causing me to develop a fair deal of psychosis and stress. i only hope, beings i hold the portkey to the prosperity of our futures, that i can solve this whole ordeal.

i am not trying to be heroic, i am simply consumed, like a babe wrapped in its pastel blanket contained within a wicker basket. in this case however, i am not free from the ball and chain of the outside world to drift off into deep sleep under the wing of motherly instinct. i am troubled, i am a mere messenger