You come to me for a greater employ, boy.?

-I am Disgustion a man of distinguished, noble line, carrying for centuries past.-

Destroy is the only thing we can do, and those whom are noble, crush--there is nothing you can do--and those whom do not crush
are not noble; the noble survive and to survive means to crush.  Nay, I never say we squander...much; but yay I say
thus to live is to create impositions for others, though I do not take *much* joy in this task.

A land opened up in front, as the side curtains of dark parted, leaving only curtails of dark-grey blur.  Knowing nothing, this
vision, nothing determined thus far, including visage, the mind behind it not knowing that yet began to try focusing more clearly;
a massive ache within it.  
Scarce, soft breathing, a pumping, reconciling with the figure's bodily, slow, boot-up; things interchanging, turning on, awakening
stimulating, comeing-to, and clean arms starting to move again, hands examined by eyes.  This coming to, to *a reality*, far from black
sleep wasn't arduous but the figure did feel some heat, itchyness, and cold sweet--he felt just like an awakened egg after it was
slapped onto a hot burner.

This figure *was* clothed, and standing in an afternoon hot sun, wind flowing by not wildly, shadow cast down not completely underneath
and in a sort of barren sand land, not devoid of *all* plantlife and insects.  Sweat beaded on his fingers from cupping his hands to 
look at them, and at the same time, shield his eyes from the beacon of blindness in solid birdsong blue.  He had long hair, longer
on the right than it was on the left, at least by deception of the way that it fell across his right shoulder; so-be-it, nevertheless,
he indeed had more hair on his right side of his head; it made for a volumnous, calm style, of genderless impact and persuasion.

Everything else beyond that was simple; his shirt, clean and neutrally-coloured; his pants, tight all round his legs; and, his
shoes, with nothing but a boot-like heel and a compartmented emboss of two non-descript shapes; *all* of this parralleling
ambiguous indeginity.  It all -being- odds and ends not 'run-of-the-mill' but 'not-of-this-world' either,--perhaps no words can/to describe
this,--but a regal plainness.  His-self was his own/self orbit.

He looked around him, coming out of his sleep, or whatever had happened to him.  He saw nothing but rocks and sediment sprinkled 
all over the hard ground.  He rubbed his chest, but he gasped aghast and gripped, something with pronounced features; hard wings,
rooting their symmetrical ends within his chest both jutting out a little far past his sides; in this astonishing peculiarity he
noticed that the shirt he was wearing was part of them, perhaps a carapace, but of a thing like this he did not know what it meant.

The boy lightly felt with his fingers on these two curiosities, and noticed that they were there, nothing could be done about them,
and where he was needed to be figured out, before anything else was to be fulfilled.  

He did remember words.  He stepped forward, in the direction of the sun, as there was nothing to be done while standing there, and the heat was getting to him.  He had the innate senses, knowledge, and nature that felt natural to him, of course; he knew that he *knew*
things, just now where they originated from.  All of his knowledge was basic and would be usable if he were to find another person,
and not fuzzy in the least; whereas his memories were not present, but he knew that he must have had some for there was a void 
within his mind in which he felt a painful emptiness, like a nestled pouch with roots was interfered with and all organs around were
aggravated.

If he found someone to talk to, he could do it, but around here--he thought to himself--there probably wasn't anybody.