Chuck Crump's eyes glaze over, inhaling deeply of the smoke from the burning pipe, preparing again to be launched into the black. He has spent many months in this haze, having awoken in unimaginable depths, his memories ducking in and out of awareness. The mask he carries, he has found, is just one of many down here.
"It was a nice day, goodly weather," someone nearby mutters.
"What?" Chuck whispers, slumping over onto his side. He cannot avert his gaze, cannot stop his hearing.
"Kind of immature, isn't he? Yeah! a bit! But, he's gone now! Forever!"
They tear their guts out with long knives.
"Concepts are the problem! Craving for closure leads straight to the hell-realms!"
Screams, wholly inhuman.