MisterBadguy

Time counts backwards from a hundred. Counts with its tongue on its incisors: one hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven. The year is, however briefly, 2099. Again. Legs with hooks and little hairs are scratching the secret side of his skin, stitching it onto his floating bones. Paper wings buzz electric where his mouth should be. And his tongue is dry with mothdust, and his voice is a mystic drone. It is hard to think because he named them all, every chitinous body inside his own body, every faceted eye, every mandible, every last one. Kagatsuchi filled him with bugs. Not long ago, but still. There is so much to know that he forgets himself sometimes.