largely drunk on exhaustion, these days. floating in those insensate hazes brought on by too much coffee & too little patience. in this fog i come upon the world, like the tuatha de daanan coming upon hibernia. i with in places without memory, as forgotten as any other trash littering the alleyway. gosh, i don't know. i feel like i've gone awol from some war for mexican idependence. wishing wings for sabers. all confused about the state of my inhabitance of a house; did my long lost love die in this room, on this matress with this mysterious stain? did i lose my virginity & gain my manhood on a divan in this small corner? was this chamber once aloud with mariachis? did this bluebottle die on this windowsill while i watched, fascinated? fascinated by its struggling legs & slow movements. trapped in the amber of death.
i may be shrouded in this grin i've got, but i've got a bellyfull of hate like an iron furnace has coals. i mean, i display all the medals i've been awarded by team evil on my chest like a war hero, don't i? i've got my (shriveled, black) heart on my sleave, havn't i? this hate is most of what keeps me going. i'm dead inside except for hate (& a niggling mote of love). i'm a revenant possessed by myself, but the dark palace of my desires. i'll see the world returned to the abyss, for now it's naught by shadows held together by cobwebs. i will feast on the heart of the dweller of the threshold.
mortimer kills archibald in the seventh hour, thrusting an ash spear into his chest. the cause is daphne, the cause is the fate of the world, but the root is woland, the herald of old scratch. its the caine & able tale of our little gaol; mortimer turns from god to embrace love, & slaughters archibald for his bride. the oh so holy archie had it coming, let me tell you. but is now remembered, & on the most holy of saints a stigmata forms over the heart, where the mortal wound dealt by mortimer fell.