Anguished Droplets : Antithesis of The Beloved
Dearest paramour, I wish you a state of grace; I jest, this is assuredly gehenna. I encountered a solitary incomer with a tincturing tool in hand; his fate was sealed, for I was unseen in my furtive approach.
Tonight, utter valediction to your former gnosis. The ensuing sanguine flow shall be imputed to your account, and as I close my orbiculars, grant me one more osculation before my everlasting wakefulness.
Apotheosis will presently be my vantage.
I remain two gambits ahead of your planning. You are merely a pedestrian piece. Execute your castling, yet my shadow looms behind your monarch. As your matriarch lies exsanguinated upon the chessboard, accept your capitulation, you wholly misjudged your antagonist.
The narratives are self-inscribing. The author has transgressed the proscenium once more, neglecting to etch the finale. Propel yourself toward the solar zenith, observing which soul comes undone. The she-villain, the fractured nuptial figure, we sit and witness the confluence of cosmos.
Would you still revere the memory of Joan of Arc? Was her flesh yet untouched by ignis? Will your mind recollect the manner in which the tidal forces impact the chronological littorals? Who could have ever divined that each fiat held lucidity? Who could have ever known? Our actions are the only metric of our being. Our lives are versification, we must render them sonnets.
Unleash the mythos, I am utterly ensnared, exist within your direst trepidations, avert not this destiny!
Why do the floorboards crepitate with the rhythm of a cardiac thrum? This confines me to alienation, what arcana lies sequestered behind the masonry? Who is tapping upon my chamber door? Pendulum! Why do you perpetuate this calamity? What fatuous words am I uttering? My ratiocination is forfeit.
No longer am I Fethema, a goddess of radiance, I have become Gruzalcka, a nocturnal demoness. I remain two gambits ahead of your planning.
We sit and witness the confluence of cosmos. We must render them sonnets. The vespertine hour of my demise was the hour of my Gruzalcka genesis. I was no longer myself, no longer Arphabael. The pulchritudinous malevolence flowed through my vasculature, and I perceived with absolute clarity the necessity of the act. As you lay in slumberous oblivion, I penned her farewell and imprinted a final kiss upon your cheek. The blade felt so ethereal in my grip, yet a profound gravity in my abdomen. There is a certain numen to this cubicle.