I open my eyes, many eyes, dozens of them covering my form. Sticky, I feel that way, my limbs have no shape, no true feeling. My body is of black, formless tar, warm, thick. What am I? Who am I?

Do I inhale? I feel cold wetness all around, pressing, disgusting pressure all about, holding back my form from quick movement.

Do I speak? Can I understand?

Do I see? All is so dark and frightening, what am I?

I sit alone at the bottom of this dark sea as nothing more then a challenge to those with time and bravery.

Why do I exist?

_________________
- "The fiend is less hideous in his own shape....then when he rages in the breast of man"

Ssshhhhhh!

Tch!

_________________
"Never ascribe to malice, that which can be explained by incompetence"
~ Napoleon Bonaparte.
- Clearly, Napoleon never envisioned the Internet......where I'd judge it about 50/50.

*Glances over, his grimior in one skeletal paw* Now see here, when was the last time the city had a poet to sing to it?

_________________
- "The fiend is less hideous in his own shape....then when he rages in the breast of man"