The water shone desolately; the sky, with the sun zealously black, was a contemptuous nostalgia of sentimental corruption. The river of light no longer shines true; along its banks a darkness has become its plain; a crimson darkness that creeps upon the insipid banks. Upon its banks, the protagonist mounts, and it looks upon the rubbish steps of tumbling, with the crimson shining sinister. Desolate faces of horror skip along the banks. Souls of dark. Hidden evil. Lurking death. They had passed the trial, but the protagonist must now navigate. It adventures past the supposedly benign its, a comment hear and there. A remark. A hollow apathy. The sensuous its of the world without absent euphemism. The protagonist is greeted by a woman, the chief consultant, a short and fat woman with red hair. Black draft. Red shades. White detachment. She weaves a seductively perverted array of vexed but horribly benevolent cotton. She glares pretentiously upon the hollow trite it, mocking the cold irrelevant fate, that is already zealously weaved. Urgently the candid woman ushers the protagonist into the black commission, the heart of gold. She fancies her next weave.

The detached wise men wave their didactic commentaries. John is sad that his favorite show was canceled. Jim is shocked of the dreariness of the day, despite it being an ordinary London for the managers. The cluttered estate managers clog the arteries of system, and as the clog gets more urgent, and death certain, the only recommendation is more. Always more. More sentiment. More somber. More sympathy. More zealous yet irrelevant triads about their humorous utopias. In the dark corners of the red room, there lies the truly provocative. But, the managers only look upon in detached sympathy or condescending apologetics. Weaving through the proud managers, the protagonist must reach the inner sanctum. But, the zealous men are profuse, and ever multiply, and therefore only horrifying cuts and scratches are gained, rather than true progress. The protagonist yells, but no one hears, and no sound is made. Nothing but nostalgic corruption. What could a trite it possibly have to say? What could it, so professionally ignorant, know? But, as always, eventually a path is revealed. Tile made of black gold, covered in red draft, laid by laymen, funded by the trite. The benevolent path to death is revealed, by detached sympathetic clergy of unrestrained zealous sentiments. The inner sanctum is reached. Walls of gold. Giddy joking. Provocative nostalgia. Every corner lit up, with all the light of land, which is no longer belongs to which whom once owned it. The homespun aliens find the sensuous trite humorous. With spurious euphemism, Daniel examines the three trite before him. The protagonist scholarly awaits the verdict. A trite named John donated to the council to approve insipid, moralistic, and symbolic sympathy to aid all trite, and John is given a piece of obscure light, in the form of a simple yet concrete note. For the last two trite... Darkness comes. They were not sympathetic enough.