The sun rose as it always had, turning away the darkness. Roaën awoke
from a well-deserved slumber, all of the day he had preached and
convinced the non-believers of the superior being, an all loving God.
Slowly he made his way to his spot, the spot where he had, as a young man, seen the light. It was here that he did his meditation, here that he communed with his spirit, spoke to God. With a tired body he sat; years were stacking upon his shoulders that outnumbered most others; but he was not sad. 'That much closer to God', he had often thought.
As he was walking to his spot, he noticed an odd sensation in his breast; 'twas as if there were a gallon of sand within his heart, it did not burn, it was more a grainy feeling throughout his veins, like his blood was crystalline.
This feeling of strangeness did not dissipate, instead it grew more intense as he neared his spot, the upon reaching it, the feeling climaxed into sharp pain, as if someone had wrapped him in sandpaper and pulled it up and off with a violent force. Then it stopped. He stopped for a second, and gathered his thoughts; today felt strange indeed. He was out of balance, something was not right. In his meditation he experienced something as he had never before. He closed his eyes, and soon began to see vivid whirlpools of colour. At the center of the whirlpool there was a dark hole, and it seemed to be over flowing with an emptiness beyond definition. His spirit was lifted out of his body and the sky grew near. Monstrous clouds loomed ahead, terrible storm clouds, with an unearthly character about them, as if they were sentient. 'This is Judgement Day...', the thought swam through his mind like a rabid pirhanna, he bagan to feel dissociated from his reality.
Finally punching through the coulds an enormous figure loomed before him. It was a colossal figure; truly, this must be the countanence of God. Graven in it as in stone was the face of the most noble king, a face of all-knowing, of caring, of sternness, of forgiveness, of... (falsity)?
A deadly silence engulfed the vision; and the figure became pale and intangilbe. It began to crack and brake apart, larger pieces began falling off, and he saw that it had been hollow.
Through and still the silenced reigned.
Now at his feet lay the remnants of the false idol. He climbed to the top of the heap and gazed around at the terrain. His faith had been crushed, his spirit a ground and tortured mess. As far as his gaze penetrated he saw naught but barren, lifeless plains sternly punctuated by depressant nothing,... he saw nothing except a decrepit, mummified claw, posthumously clasping the reigns to a broken chariot,... with no horses.