There is a thing. A dark angular presence that recedes all the way to the vanishing point. Like a bad polygon drawn by an overheating graphics card, a sunset shadow on an infinite plain. The near tip of that shadow moves around itself, toothed and jagged, like a chainsaw bent into a Mobius strip folded into a sack. A thousand thousand chainsaw tapeworms chasing each other through a bulging intestine.

— Exordia by Seth Dickinson