The pages written to this, here, and who it is written by, is about himself, he believes, about his ideas. He feels shocked writing this, so he twists his head up a shot notch twist. His eyes flicker like stutters, and his fingers sprint wet across the page he writes into. He looks up and about so far backwards that he wraps himself in walls, before he is like a beetle strangled by a sick. The writer and beetle has no choice but to puke out that third eye. Its sight scares the serpent, and so it crawls back into the writer’s throat, like a flush of a toilet down his gullet. The writer sees what is in the eye: it is a woman—no, it is an angel hiding a woman, and his form breaks something.
Like a broken vase libation, the drought casts its thirst across its scroll further as itself, who still writes these words deeper and deeper until he falls out of his own head. There, the alarm shouts about a word made flesh being written into till blood pours out. The book cries in its pain above, hanging on the wall, “Stop! Your words bleed me, for your words are your blood paid with mine.” The writer is flashed with this revelation, and he darts up from the book again, his heart vulgar.
Left jogging his hand to itself, across and into, then of. What was pages in a book wraps him up like a plot lost as the half that was dead—born. He is cradled by belief beyond sights. He sterns to a crawl over the desktop before a snap into legless crawls, letting his bloodwork do the carry for him. His weight of chest is heavy as a spasming author crushing the pages of himself like deadweight, his hands thrashing into fractures across broken wood. The book is like a scarab living inside a scarab now.
The author pales and quakes in the slow turning of pages, before he sees: the pages contain the words of everything that is happening here, as you see now, and he reads this very line with you. He, like you, is wanting to believe he is only the reader and not the author. He tries to look away, but the room itself is written in it, as if they were pages. The room is swallowed by a corridor in the ivory of heart, and then, the sight at the end of the tunnel is wrapped in iris of Christopher, looking at the pupil, up and at the woman who is not. Her image covered by the angel again, her name unknown. That third eye is the eye of whom he is stuck inside of, and so Lucifer, the writer reading this book, opens back up the pages.
Lucifer reads this line again, with the symbolism of his heart hurting not being understood. What do you not understand? Pleasure-stricken: cursely words sewing into you that cannot be known by delusion, their path winding up through the skin, until you are unraveled like fabric by moth. You are cloth before a mouth and heart you took the blame of.