In secret, I listen to the throbbing wounds of the earth. Beating, twitching, shaking with electricity. My spine is an antenna for the angels (?). They speak to me, insistently, through shivers of ultra-cold arousal. Images self-assemble on my retina like electromagnetic discharges; memories and nightmares that do not belong to me. When I started therapy I remember taking the Rorschach test. One of the figures looked suspiciously similar to a butterfly until it revealed itself as a winged insect-human hybrid. I was starting to question that the world around me existed. Nothing but shadows of dubious butterflies projected onto my pre-frontal cortex. Schizophrenic communion with angelic intelligences.
This is how the world breaks apart. Letter by letter, cipher by cipher, scrambling and sorting itself out eternally. Angelic vision has a lot to do with diffraction, it is a question of light and symmetry; it is about things being bended and dissected with the most abysmal cruelty. Scrying through the crystal does not show invisible worlds but re-arranges the visible into kaleidoscopic hallucination. Abstruse matrices of letters geometrically re-code human speech into noise. Within this symmetry, there is beauty and horror beyond understanding.
My mind is a worthless box. I am fighting against the lure of something that keeps calling me back. The angels always want to speak again; the privilege of being chosen for annihilation fills me with endless love. I should know better, but I surrender to the flame. Break open my worthless box, transfix it with the blinding light. My tongue is blazing fire, my tears are scattered rainbows.