lantern soul chapter 3

 

There comes a day when what is false seems natural, yet ash will rain from the sky. A marked life (the Dusk child) shall mark an age of warlords. The rise of what is forgotten for heaven's decisions will give the universe new rules for hell: the Dusk child and their lantern soul.

 

The halls without end the world without order this is again, the reversed territory.

 

And so Abra is listening, with the four ears, the cliche fairy-like ones on the side of her head. And the fox-like pair on the top of her head.

 

She is an Alfar.

 

The haunted organic mass of flesh she is wandering through is a new life for spacetime. Where no matter what it is, it is waiting but with more abundance. She is positive for a missionary. She was going out to express the loving good news. Though anxious from what she heard.

 

The Nephilim is the emanation of the demiurge. Cancer in God's mind, the negative that is given a name (satan), is nothing but a role that he and others must play.

 

She would call out Oldboy and Sin. But they take too much for granted. She instead looks at the menu out of the corner of her eyes and selects maggot arms. His green armor is surrounding her and swelling and protecting as gentle and skilled with its firmness as an understanding lover. In her head, she hears a song from her dream that the boy Thomas liked. Donovan's catch the wind. It plays in her head as she goes buzzing forward, blue flames from jetpacks lighting up behind her.

 

Her forearms are more like lances, protruding from her elbow at twice the length. As an observer, I want to compare her to a praying mantis. However, that does not do the efficiency of what is happening justice. She had heard the Nephilim and now catapulted herself forward. The two spears in the star-shaped alien helmet she was reflecting from those cold black eyes. All of this in several seconds.

 

The Nephilim was eight or nine floors tall. It didn't even see what killed it—impaled and screaming out while she is burning through it. She has killed yet one more of the angel's children—the giants of renown; the thought pops in her head. The black blood covers her and pours out of the giant like a hydrant hit by a car.

 

When life leaves it, and it lays down in its rest. She will carve a penis-shaped scar on its face. And write around it, "this train is bound for glory." Not even comprehending the compulsion in the slightest, she decides not to pray for a week with fear that God will similarly correct her. However, she does start a fast, an act she also feels is necessary even if she does not understand the meaning. As if any communication can have importance. She is losing faith, not in his existence, but in the fear that he was invented on a pale blue dot a thousand big bangs ago.

 

Eternity is nothing but a prolonged-expression of the object that is the moment. Felt by many through those fragments of their lives, it feels fleeting. But when seen from afar, the whole of the thing. All of the spacetime as an on object shapes the mind with its clarity. Like each sentence makes a paragraph, and those combine into chapters. At least we see the shape of what came before, even if it is forgotten in the acknowledgment of its self.