In rusted caverns dripping with infection, the Unliving cluster and whisper and creak; ballgowns stained down into flowing rags, tailcoats and vests molded and torn, reshaped into peculiarities, a nightmare of the museum.
Clutching icy crystals to their chests, they scramble over slippery rocks and warily swerve around jagged surfaces caked with illness-filled scum.
Quietly, a man whose boot-buckles are rusted as the roof crouches and silently tears wet pages from a spotted book.
Above, the blessed Dead wander through crystal galleries, blissfully forgetful of the potential disease below them. They listen to chimes and harps, and wash their throats with champagne, and wrap themselves in satin and in lace. They wear mother-of-pearl and diamonds. Chandeliers wash the chambres in fractured colors. Imaginary water swims through the rooms.
Sometimes, when the sun comes, it all falls silent, and all that is left is the sound of blood.