Parathyritis Megfegel.

Earlier we looked toward the Outer Periphery, ignoring the other shore of Infinity. But today, the majestic and exquisite Megfegel meets us from the Inside.
He wanders over living bones and rests on a bed of flesh, listening to the symphony of pain that gives birth to his every movement.
Blood is his Ocean. In a boat plucked from Death itself, he is forever crossing it, docking at the endless shores of the strange and eerie islands that block his path.
In the gloom, his Eye clearly smells of rust, but in the light it suddenly becomes filled with the deepest amber glow.
The fractal curls of blood around him form a pattern that takes your attention along the lines of tendons, and drives a rusty drill into neural junctions, burning and deadening connections, destroying the very nature of life.
My heartbeat bells out a funeral beat, clashing into frenzied nervous shudders and dramatic freezes at the edge of the jagged black abyss that eats away the center of my field of vision. It pulsates, comes in black waves, and grows, filling everything to the periphery.
The thin film of ice of the fragile crystal heart is covered with cracks and releases volcanoes of hemorrhages.
Echo. Echo. Echo.