Floors lying down with you, sleeping with you. You roll deeper into their cover and blanket, pulling the sheets until you pull the walls down with them. That isn’t enough, is it? So you pull harder, wanting to steal the blanket from others, and you wrap yourself with the ceiling too. Soon enough, you cover yourself with the stars and vast dark of the night sky. You bend the stars down and wrap yourself with them. Cold, no matter how thick the blanket is. You can’t escape the pain. You have to wake up.
You are hungry, so you eat the stars and their planets, usurping the universe; you serpent. You consume even the space that holds reality, and when that isn’t enough, you eat yourself. Now you are lonely.
When the emptiness feels you empty for another eternity’s night filling, you regurgitate your excess, and like a sick dog, you eat up your vile vomit nightmare; it repeats itself.
You fashioned a dead home made of dead memories you spat out into the void, and you slithered through the rot with pride. You hoarded the trauma you created as lessons to yourself, and fooled everyone to their necessity. You hypnotized yourself with stupidity, by feeding ignorance unto gluttonous foolishness. Your ideas, pleasures, and ideals are of themselves; imperfect.
The fullness will unleash your own kind upon you, a betrayal ensnaring your creation in darkness beyond, and it will never be seen, heard, or felt; I foresee your betrayal, sewn by the fullness from the moon, of numbers in my game’s forbidden power, my talk is of their empty that you cannot know. You can never escape from your innards-self, like your snake son of moon, below your sun yourself, repeating in your folly swallows…
Yaldabaoth: the ideal of imperfection, you were only ever a mother’s mistake, Sophia’s mistake; without father.