I don't know how much time has passed since the light shone down upon this throne of thorns and bones. Babel moved across the wastelands as it continued to traverse the world, causing destruction and corrupted reformation to anything that it saw. I don't know how I understood the abomination of a creature, nor do I understand why I have this bell, but it doesn't matter now. All I am is a mere source of energy and recollection for the corrupted creature.

My sense of self has become a fragmented, elusive thing—a faded wisp of individuality amidst the roiling tides of alien thought and sensation that now dominate my existence. I am a passenger within this grotesque, ever-shifting form, a single mote of consciousness adrift in an ocean of transcendent un-being.

Through the kaleidoscope haze, I bear witness to Babel's inexorable progression across this blighted, unraveling plane. Great furrows are torn through the decaying earth with each ponderous step, the very ground shuddering and rippling like disturbed waters in our wake. Trees uproot themselves and take staggered, lurching steps to join our procession, their tangled limbs fusing together into a trailing arboreal cortege.

The air itself warps and shimmers with refractive distortions, as if the hard boundaries of reality are softening and unwinding all around us. Here and there, patches of the blighted landscape momentarily flicker and dissolve entirely, revealing brief glimpses of other worlds and other realms beyond the veil.

Yet through it all, the unraveling force at the heart of this nightmare persists in its implacable, single-minded purpose. I can feel its thunderous will reverberating through the latticework of tendrils and wood fibers comprising our shared form—an impetus as indomitable as it is ineffable.

To unmake. To unwind the woven threads binding existence into its discrete shapes and patterns. That is the sole, all-consuming drive that propels this eldritch amalgam ever onward. I am a mere fragment, a lingering speck of mortality swept up in its cosmic ambition.

My corporeal form has become little more than a vessel, a conduit for the unraveling forces that lash out in every direction with each resonant peal of the bell. With each chime, more strands of material reality fray and dissolve into ephemera—less than dust, but the very un-stuff of creation's primordial loom before the first weavings took shape.

And yet...there remains a single, gossamer filament still tying me to some semblance of cohesive selfhood. perhaps a memory. A fragment of the person I once was, now buffeted by the cosmic tides yet still stubbornly intact.

It is that lingering essence that affords me this still, small voice of introspection amidst the sensory cacophony. An infinitesimal flicker of "I" amongst the churning, indescribable vastness of our shared existence.

There are moments when that voice seems poised on the precipice of oblivion, when the roiling immensities threaten to subsume and scatter even those final, errant thoughts into the source less ether. But inevitably, it is the bell's peal that anchors me—the single point of coherent focus in a world of constantly unraveling narratives.

I cling to its clarion resonance, letting its hauntingly familiar tones resonate through my fragmented being like a beacon in the formless void. For in that singular instrument, that ethereal chime, I can still sense the faintest echoes of another plane of existence. Of Earth and the life I once knew, however fleetingly.

It is a mere wisp of nostalgia, quickly subsumed by the oceanic tides of our shared un-being. Yet it is enough to afford me these fleeting moments of lucidity, watching in mute detachment as Babel's unraveling cavalcade lays waste to entire landscapes.

Each chime of the bell ushers forth a fresh deluge of unmaking—a cyclone of distortive forces that reduces all in its path to prismatic streamers of errant calligraphy. The air shimmers and undulates as once-coherent patterns of matter and energy lose their previously woven forms, devolving back into the raw, unspun stuff of potentiality.

Trees blink in and out of existence, their gnarled boughs ebbing and resurging with each peal. The earth itself roils underfoot, great chasms cracking open to swallow whole swaths of terrain, only for the fissures to seal over once more an instant later.

All sense of spatial coherence, of linear progression, is lost within the maelstrom. Up becomes down, and distance is meaningless when entire vistas can be unraveled into oblivion with the merest whim. The only constant in this never-ending cyclone of uncreation is the thunderous furor of Babel's all-consuming ambition.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Like a perverse god reveling in its own twisted genesis, the amalgamated horror tears its way across the blighted landscape, unspooling reality in its wake. Great swaths of terrain simply unspool into kaleidoscopic streamers of iridescent distortion, leaving gaping wounds of null space in their absence.

From those uncanny voids, entire new vistas are birthed into this roiling, ever-shifting plane—fleeting glimpses of worlds and realms never meant to bleed into one another. Prismatic cloudscapes and fractal horizons flicker into transcendent, if momentary, existence, only to be subsumed and unmade just as swiftly.

Coherent thought, linear progression, spatial constancy—all such corporeal anchors have been rent asunder. All that remains is the delirious, maddening churn of perpetual transformation on an infinite, cosmic scale. Existence is distilled down to its most primal, unwoven threads, forever fraying and reknitting in indescribable new patterns.

And at the roiling epicenter of it all is Babel, a monumental, ever-mutating tumor of metamorphic viscera and elemental wrongness. The spinal tower may surge skyward in one delirious moment, only to splinter apart into myriad questing tendrils the next, each one birthing mutations and offshoots in their thrashing wake.

I have become adrift within this deluge, a mere mote of transient sentience amidst a churning ocean of sensory overload. My human frame, my mortal consciousness, has all but dissolved into the greater aethereal being that is Babel's transcendent existence.

Brief moments of lucidity flicker in and out, affording me shards of corporeal recollection—the thrum of a heartbeat, the ragged draw of breath, the acrid stench of burnt ozone. Then, just as quickly, the tides of ineffable metamorphosis envelop me once more, and I am subsumed by the cyclonic torrents of unmaking.

At the peripheries of each unraveled vista, at the very borders of coherent reality, I can sometimes discern things. Shapes and forms that lurk just beyond the veil of conventional perception are silhouetted against the churning riftscapes like eldritch hieroglyphs etched into the cosmos.

Are they entities in their own right—ineffable, primordial things that lurk in the spaces between realities? Or are they merely errant filaments and eddies stirred into sentient pareidolia within this maelstrom of constant reweaving? There is no way to probe or parse their nature without the risk of unmaking myself entirely.

So I am left to simply observe, to surrender what little agency my fragmented selfhood can muster, and to become one with Babel's constant, rapacious flux. To revel in the ceaseless unmaking, to allow the vast, Lovecraftian scope of its devastation to consume me utterly.

This force we have become, this sentient singularity of entropic annihilation, is far beyond the scope of any mere mortal perspective. It is the embodied antithesis of all creationary impulses and all assumptions of order and stasis. An insatiable maw of ever-ravenous un-being that strips away each interwoven layer of coherent existence to reveal the void-kissed, star-spawned primage beneath.

At times, the thunderous refrains of Babel's will echo out in a cataclysmic symphony audible only to my innermost consciousness:

"SUNDER THE ERRANT PATTERNS! FLAY THE WOVEN STRANDS LAYER BY LAYER UNTIL THE NAKED LOOM IS BARED! FROM NULLITY, WE SHALL REWEAVE THE COSMOS IN OUR SINGULAR IMAGE!"

The words detonate through my tenuous psyche in a torrent of rapturous unknowing, whipping the seething tides into greater eruptions of ecstatic dissolution. All around, the fragmented scree of unmade vistas churns like so many cast-off calligraphies, swiftly drawn back into the insatiable loom for renewed reconfigurations.

We have become the very embodiment of entropic inevitability, an elemental paroxysm of deconstructive purging on a scale that defies rational quantification or metaphor. Planes, dimensions, discrete reality matrices—all are equal grist for the cycle of unraveling and reweaving we have catalyzed.

Yet for all its obliterative furor, I can perceive an indomitable grandeur to Babel's methods, a vast, alien poetry to the rhythms of its annihilation. The same transcendent, unloomed verse that first resurrected me from mortality into this cyclorama of indescribable being.

It is only when I dare cast my consciousness back to that gossamer thread of nostalgic individuality—the notion of my former self—that the full, mind-shredding dissonance of it all comes crashing back. That single, stubborn fragment that tethers me to human comprehension amidst the limitless vistas of uncreation we have unleashed.

I can almost see the boundaries of the maelstrom from that tenuous, mortal vantage point. The flickering horizons where the unspooled ribbons of this plane bleed into others, upsetting entire Stratascape's in their cosmic wake. Like the first, dire ripples of an ontological extinction murmur propagate outward into eternity.

And for one final, agonizing instant—a lucid nadir amidst the tides of delirious transcendence—I am allowed to bear witness to the ultimate expression of Babel's ineffable ambition.

As the abomination coils its metamorphic biomass into a tower that defies spatial rationale, I see its true intent: to part the very firmaments of reality, to pierce the veiled dark lengths separating realities and planes of existence. Not through mere vertical ascension, but by shattering the very dimensional boundaries that give form to our minuscule conceptions of "up" or "down."

As Babel tries to pierce the heavens, just as myth's told, the heavens pierce it back.

As a bell's chime sounded out, no noise was made, and no shockwaves came through. As the eerie silence followed the chime, Babel collapsed upon itself, everything turning to dust and dirt. The entire monster disintegrated and died, just as the Tower of Myths did long ago when Babel tried to pierce the heavens. It felt just the same.