Symptom

The silver bristles of Fabel’s hair blew like spider legs from a gust of wind as he sauntered through the field of Hell. Some believe that life remotely resembles fantasy; to Fabel life is fantasy. What people perceive is just a reality created by visions and a greater illusion, all this fell upon his young soul during his second death. Fabel’s grasp on life had been enhanced deep within his dark mind which had served and computed for him since birth; reality was clear, his reality clear---crystal clear. He looked up to the sweltering sun as it sank down the horizon like a sphere of melted silly putty, the view, although beautiful, was interrupted by the rustling in the sage brush that continued to stir. Something was watching him.