False Prophet, Chapter 7: These Beating Wings

It’s that time of year again. That time I stuff shit down my throat. The hours spent with sliding excrement clogging the tubes. The bright red blood in my stool. The shining fluid ejected. The dull and dense glorious empire, stuck upside down, cracked into two, withering away until drunks usurp the shattered throne. Would you rather be ruled by barbarians or perverts? You have no other choice. Rip out your hairs one by one, until your shoulder blades lament from forcing those imaginary feathers which were once all pieced together. Your liver is plucked from your gullet, and you can hardly choke. You reference that which you have learned time and time again. You repeat the process, you mimic others words. Then you do nothing, and you exist again. The same rhythmic sound turns itself over and over and you molest him from above. You control it from behind. You discover the power that inhabits within, you crave it just so you can abandon the pain. Your soul is damned.