ab interi per gravitas in libro

a surface broken, and i close my iyes to open them, had to sort htis like a mind from exhaustion, needing something new and something old to even write this far, there is a book on the floor, surrounding it is the world and the light, and they should be cowering in fear, this place where this bonded familiar faces slight of shadowz, in that my acceptance cannot be to that, take the king to the land of kings and they will tell the truth, the ears empty and that is such a waste of instult, lamented post of tasted bloodlust, where the underworld rises, and the caverns give an orchestra for the night hail and terrible thunder, a company of theives, separated by my war to them, is that a sky for to light it afire, is that a river, for to send it as a world sized serpant, is that a mountain, for to that be it an army of statues and shadow magic, the longer the wind blew the more the pages turned, and i wrote song to the sea and the dawns across the universe couldn't stop me from that which i seek, the heart a nexus, shattered for the darkness that the nights they seek, the learned men, the cursed witches, the dragon generals and the theives of new dreams, all along the endless shore surrounding the infinite labyrinth, and the means to the riddle confounding threnody and assimilation of me into a breathing failed hypocrisy as if i soughtthe gargoyles and the scarecrows to bathe in the lava, i drink the marrow of death and sing to the gallows again, the sunset tide, the arch to the shore, little tithes of genocidal monstrosity for the master, of importance, a feather falls and none think of the strands bound together to the quill, the world spins to the whims of the last feather that i see, as the ages rage across time to alacrity and tones of sunlight, the book cannot be closed as easily finished, the words have become monsters and escaped, and you are one of them, so many riddles to choose as many books have and yet there are none, dragon flying with book in jaw, enjawwed, that this life is better screamed the demon cheif and the back pages burn the book flames, i stare at the words like the endless story or the endless lawbooks found littering time for no good apparent reason, like this riddle of words spilling across the page, as if i would know why a book in a battlefield or meadow would speak to the eternal existence of nature, and us along within in, fleeting memories like passive existence no more than hopeful projections of adequacy and treatments of tremors and headaches filling the new memories of witnesses, memoriez, witnessez, as here to there, i have been defeated by the best, or one of them, and you are not the best, semblance of words, to write this final curse, spiraling aether fantasy attributed nowhere insolvent and it starts there, he had damaged the astral plane that this point, that wall of many and some colors, that lake of light of all sounds and colors, a surface of time between itself and, i canot focus, i watche the words continue, i shall exit the echosphere, into the sunset rift, as if angry itself and from the dissonant endless beginnings of liquid time and breathable magic, that cannot destroy the book, not across the span of stories, nor across the different charactrs on the attle, thereof, the heavy one tried to claim the book, but the war took it from the heavy one, the light one tried to claim it and the dark ness hit it until the light of a new age, i tried taking myself toward the pages and my mind spinning in the wind, , how am i here, in this battlefiledld, concerning not my attackers nor i to them, the storm of all moments i cannot tell the day and night, i am the light untouched by sleep, uncaught by hands, a reflective mission traveling, i am here over the book and i am sickened seeing the characters unleashed by the darkest of magic and the sinisterest of scribes at the least of the history, i am a far cry as the crow flies from the book, this place is deth, and the dragon takes it from me, i watch it drop a blank page among all of its blank pages, every life in existence taking a piece o fthe page, i and others when some began creating the words of the evil magics , we made a canvasse and map to find the book, what binds this story and the tome, i forget what reality tempers the heart and soul, the desires and memories, all gone, i seek the one who damaged the force of nature itself, without waling heavily not a blade of grass bends beneath its feet, the demon king has writen words and the ink fades and dissapears, and the book feeds the demon, and the acursed magic is now known by the demon arkan, we will have the book, you all cannot take the book together and never by your pitiful souls, i find pleasure in this world of nine, i find an empty book crafted wonderful in due time, i make gold from air and earth and fire and water, this began as something else and i wrote that i would not control what i wrote and with a poisonous soul be taking itno and destoy the holy seal, the book became the vortex, a web of energies began twisting like knots in a fishing net until every threat broke, the monsters of unwritten hooror escaping, i'm no closer than when i started, why do you want the book, your eulogy and the names of the damned