The key to the most malefic of illusions, is to bargain with them. Proper paradox paralysis begins at night. Pay the piper under the moon beam. Barter your soul’s sorest screams and she’ll hand you a dream ~~~ ☁️
~~~ She fixed my gaze to the mildewed pew’s left arm, an inscription in the bone. An unbroken line etched in near the scarlet stained and nearly thread bare seam. A sigil carved crooked but true and read to me as such,
“From afar, as I may say, my being is a contrivance of flesh possessed of a phantom sensum; tethered and tolled unto this endless dreaming. A bloodied canvas of living memory sparagmosed across a silver stained frame of impossible length. No sense of a beginning. My here and now dripping wet as the end draws down. A sigil of skin falls into memory to rot and mime and die again.”
