185 words about Burial's "Hospital Chapel"
A dark morning noise, passing through his sleeping mind—siren, garbage truck, something familiar but not grasped. In his dream drawn out, dispersed, a fog. He is on the fjords. Black rock and persistent green. A stormy sky, waves nearby. And the fog has its sound, almost a song. It hums and swells. Old paths wind about whorls and spin off. He follows one down a dip between hills to a structure of gray slabs stacked against each other. He enters and there are stone pews. The only light is from the entry and the arcane symbols inside, white halogens. In the pews are ghosts or holograms: flickering dead believers. In here he cannot hear the fog but faintly. The wraiths, they worship slowly. They pray. They stand and sing in unison, voices unintelligible, filtered and translucent tones. After their song they’re shut off, but their after-image remains, a bleak pulsing. He leaves. He walks to the edge of a fjord. He drops. He does not wake up immediately. The body of his mind floats on frothing waters for a while, then rises on the fog.