Verse XX: (I Fell Into a Well)

Sufjan Stevens again. “And he takes, and he takes, and he takes.” We all dress up our heroes in the hides of all the demons they slayed for us. No one knows where all the bad parts went until the hero dies and it turns out that every day was a knife in his back as he faced those he protected, the blades an elaborate stitchwork like scratches from those demons on their prison wall.

“Where is God?” Devon mumurs.

Johnny puts out his fag. “Which one?”

You get to the end and the words are just a fire to stave off your enemy tribes who think the fire is an evil; they follow the sun, maintain crunchy granola diets of raw food that keep them healthy, never knowing that the sun is a fire in the sky.

It has become symptomatic of extradimensional resonance to experience a stuttering in one’s visual perceptions when one is near an affected vicinity. Third eye ethereal, biological pupils dialate? With the soul and body at odds, the mind smirks and estimates approximate coordinates in the temporal spectrum, allowing the body and soul to believe that time has no physical substance. “Is it not just so poetic?” Devon asks. “That this ritual will actually summon a devil?” In the beginning he spent his entire focus attempting to correct the physical glitches; it seemed like maybe if he forced his body to mirror the twitches in space he could make the phenomenon more comfortable. There is something humiliating about it as well, feeling like he is acting drunker than he really is and trying to convince everyone that it is his nerves, not the booze.

A uniform of moral gray, Tyson cannot be a tourist due to eternal ties… and yet he can never be anything more but a spectator, either. “Do not put it past these faggots,” he corrects. “It could actually be that the snuff film is the coincidence and the devil the main intent.”

It is never stated outright by Devon, but some old sense of homophobia had been rekindled in the back of his mind. Try as he might to reiterate that the whole thing is tainted by his own disappointments and dashed preconceptions of Solinis, it surprised him not in the least to find that murdering young drug addicts was more or less a routine in the gay underworld.

Crackles of telepathy glint through Tyson’s temperament as he sits glaring at Devon and biting his tongue. The thing with the gay underworld is that they never get away with it… but let Solinis deal with this loose end, he decides. He doubts that Devon will betray but the prejudice may damage enthusiasm during moments of confusion.


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