Wandering deeper into the camp, you begin to notice fewer and fewer structures. What structures you do see, however, begin to waver and oscillate, as though some force is contriving them to move, shift, uncomfortably hobble, thus becoming indeterminate.
Eventually, you come across but a single large tent. It stretches far and wide and appears multi-leveled; for you can see wooden structures jaunting outward from within through unkempt tears, damage untold.
“Her face was veil’d, yet to my fancied sight, / Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin’d”
[“Her face was veil’d,” manifests at the highest level of the tent, over some bulbous outcropping sticking out from beneath the tarp. The words appear brazen and large, as though drawn by a toddler. They are almost unrecognizable. “yet to my fancied sights” slopes down vertically from the belly of “was” and ends at some smeared stain of unknown origins. “Love, sweetness, goodness” circles this stain, each word murmuring its own light hymn. “in her person shin’d” continues down the length of this encirclement to the ground, ending at the foot of some angelic monument.]
What will you do?