The beast screams wheezingly with fear and alarm. One man rips him open with the flint. Blood pours like a little waterfall from a fur mountain. THEY YELL WITH GLEE distorting stripes of ochre and green upon their faces. The baby raven listens from his nest on a nearby cliff.
Vultures think about it overhead.
Two things grow together in darkness. The mystery of hunger become murder become this dark magic. And here so obvious why these texts are holy writ. McClure seems to understand reality as whirlpools of consciousness that coil into matter and loop through these transdimensional worlds, playing then merging again with the mystery, silent, dark, unfathomable, a pregnant, boiling void. Falling through the walls.