Raspy clicks and bops, a curtain, a shower of immaterial vibrations that make your skin crawl. They move fast, circle and hound you like hungry invisible sentient spikes. They might jump on you at anytime. You move backwards, your tentacles feeling dunes of grated red iron ore.

You dig and crawl inside this abrasive mountain, but the clanking of metal in your membranes does little to damp the mean menacing sounds that follow you. You burrow further until you hit the bedrock: its sinuous jagged curves scream safety. Excavating the stone, you create a small shelter and vomit secretions to seal the entrance behind.

Above, the ticks and clicks continue, but fainter. Your strung out body welcomes the respite and yearns for nutrition. You lick the scraps of metal attached to your tentacles like a lollypop. Acids run down from your mouth and dissolve the iron ore until it becomes digestible.

And then it comes. A piercing line of fire that perforates your brain and melts all your insides; a searing hot stick of uranium that destroys and breaks and mutates you from the inside, stirring to see what type of absurd deformation it can cause in your entrails. You hear clicks and bops converting into banging, banging, banging drums of black matter that phone back to you, yelling, cursing, screaming. You wish you could hide, you wish you could run, you wish you could have prevented this, but you must lie down and suffer the distortion of your being — as you have done before. The pounding magma presses you down against the walls of your refuge, shoving you around in a cartoonish manner. Bits and pieces of your tentacles are propelled out of the bedrock, mixing with molten iron to form a shape eerily similar to an elephant's foot.