(se) like a dimmer switch on low

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

The grief was paramount and unbidden, and he stood in the onslaught of it, just as he had before, again and again and again, endless patterns of derision, guilt, and rancor. Accidents. Consequences. Misfortune. He’d heard it before from Amalia; before everything else ended too, and something took hold of him – anger? Rage? Bitterness? It was difficult to fathom in the blur of nuances and sentiments, where a cold, hardened fury gripped, where he couldn’t place blame on anyone or anything. And he wanted to, craved a face to bludgeon, a figure to dismember, a space to let the vehemence, the violence, exude, a reeling of vengeance and discord for all the pain and torment Kiada must’ve felt in her passing wake. But he couldn’t have what he desperately yearned for, what he longed to break apart – nothing but an acrid emptiness. He shouldn’t have asked.

“She did. But not like that.” Maybe the Shield had been trying to save him from the onslaught of grief, or maybe there were other nuances and notions spiraling out; facts and figures that didn’t align, didn’t add up. “Attack? Amalia told you to attack?” A very uncharacteristic notion, and his eyes narrowed, pinpointing towards the glimmer ahead. He wasn’t certain if that even mattered really; pondering if it was a lie, a fabrication, a pretense. If naught made sense anymore.

If he was just searching for answers in a void, in a hollowed sanction, that simply didn’t have any left.

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead