Daniel Hesk

Imagine you find the RCSU broadsheet in some run-down structure – a shack, really, reeking of iniquity and reclusive in a concentric bower of shadows. Perhaps the magazine is laid upon a table, being slowly devoured by a vengeful cadre of insects. Perhaps it is clutched in the hand of a shuddering visionary, too deep in the dreaming to notice you pluck it from their grip.

Down there, in the dark, you leaf through those burning pages. Your eyes widen and jaw goes slack, strings of spittle forming glistening filaments between your harrowed face and the hard-earth floor. All of existence is contained within that magazine. An Aleph of time and space, life and death, animal, vegetable, mineral, and parable. More than your floundering mind can contain.

When you leave that hovel, feel the freezing wind upon your skin, see the bright carnivorous moon hanging like a spider in the sky, hear the world turning too quickly for comfort – when you leave that place you will have no other place to step into. Staggering under the weight of such terrible knowledge, a doom more awful than that of Adam or Cain, you may die alone and afraid, cut off from the rest of your species, save those similarly accursed souls who have likewise read the RCSU broadsheet.

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