Some jab spikily at the world, testing for accuracy and thorns. Vigilant eyes in naked skulls frisk you for weapons, anticipating hurt you could never imagine. For imagining is what they do: stretching their minds to the edges of the universe, abstracting themselves to utter detachment. Here, only thoughts of death will satisfy their itchy brains, full of scorpions and magic. Enchanted by the abyss, they laugh freely: a tinny rattling laugh that does not invite participation.
They are magic, like elves, reptilian, occasionally cruel. They feel the future and smell atmospheres. Nature is interrogated for her fundamental truths. The nursery tales that govern us are disdained. Like delighted fox cubs, they yip nervously, tugging science from the buffet of human noise like scraps of chicken from a carcass. Information is the preferred nourishment for their angular, fleshless bodies, vulnerable to the elements. These calcified limbs contain none of their souls. All essence is housed behind the eyes, behind barbed-wire principles and barricade smiles. Their fractured selves are gathered in the neo-cortex.
When shadows fall and their cold bones ache, they hate life. Corporeal filth and the stench of human living offend their raw spirits. They despise anything that is not sterile; hate everything that stinks of mammalian glands.
But expose these mystical creatures to the winter sun and they will love you with a thin purity. Their cold touch will sever your heart into fractal shards, each containing the whole truth of you. Approach them carefully, keep your voice low and make no sudden movements. They will come to you, intrigued by your curiosity, bearing gifts of clean glass through which they will allow themselves to be seen.