#xibalban loveletters
i. faelord and if you slip down, down, into the velvet stillness of the climax forest, the shadows may play a game with you, darting between broad sentinels and narrow birches, dusting you with dried leaves and dandelion spore. you might catch a glimpse of him, sinuous and sinewy, horns wide and winding and intertwined with willow fronds. if you fall, the moss will welcome you, tree roots twining ‘round you, the earth pulsing and rolling, a sensuous heartbeat. you’ll laugh, and writhe, and give in, and when you do, you’ll see him, tall and lithe and brown, faunlike, curious, and he’ll smile -- one part wonder, two parts hunger -- and you’ll do anything he asks.
ii. magelight and if you cast your eyes upon one of the tomes strewn about a dim and unassuming library, if you spread it open upon the rich wooden desk under lights with no discernible source, you’ll notice that there are no straight lines of words strung into sentences strung into paragraphs -- but strange characters twisting and winding into and out of shapes, circles twirling each other in a slow infinite dance, an arcane pulse of colour and light that eats at your eyes and snatches at your astral body. but just before the todash darkness yawns great and vast before you, foolish curious creature, the book will slam closed and he’ll be staring at you, stern and rebuking, but you won’t notice as the chiding look softens into amusement because you’ll be just as hypnotised by the librarian’s glowing shifting tattoos -- had you not seen something just as wondrous, a mere moment before...? -- and snow-white hair as you’d been by the book whose contents you’re already beginning to blissfully forget. you’ll ask him questions because you know he’ll know the answers, but he won’t give them to you. he’ll only see you safely home, through every darkness, his soft pulsing glow leading the way.
iii. duskdreamer and if during a psychonautic trip you slip diagonally and disgracefully into a yawning void, dismally watching the sky turn ochre-yellow above you as the clouds begin to swirl, you might turn your head to find him lying beside you, a towheaded former dead man with skin like burnished gold, the seams where he’s been put back together still visible. he’ll not say much, but his eye will catch yours, and you’ll shudder under the pressure of that gaze, under the weight of a sorrow that tastes like burnt honey and lingers like bitter ashes on your tongue. you’ll weep, and instinctively snatch him close to you like an orphan babe, and he’ll let you, but he belongs to carcosa now, to the sucking fog of the forest and the choking smog over the cities, to the places in the mirror you don’t dare to look at full-on, to the thin places -- the highways and the cornfields, the marshlands and the motels, and the corner of your heart where you still believe in god.
