I pick up the cloth book that came to me, the hue of scarlet, large.
I do not want to open it. I warn myself. The smell of death surrounds me, blood, sickness, rotting. The scent of a thousand corpses.
Why do I have this book? I found it.
Where?
I cannot stop myself because my limbs have no will. I move, my arms stiff. I want to vomit. I am getting sick, a fever begins to rise. The cloth moves to the left.
Not words.
A sacrificial victim enters my vision. She has black hair, her skin painted by some substance. White.
A feeling of strong love.
Her nose is perfect. Her nostrils, holes, are darker than the night sky.
The disease begins to grow in me.
Death is everywhere. One filled with the weakening of the will, all taken but that emotion is not human, suffering with a red sun. It's so hot.
No one cries. Defeated.
Powerless. Overtaken.
Ancient. Here and there.
My memory knows it is immortal.
The book flies into the sky, departing from me.
It lingers in me. How can such an object be free?
Two priests open a passage without emotion, without life, completely controlled. I see them. Tall.
My vision changes again, and I see thick forests, black on the inside. I say "not evil" but nature. How do I know?
I infer.
I am here.
I do not ask more.
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