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~~The Return of The Crimson Face~~ · (09-23-2014)

" I am that black spot that follows your eyes after you've looked directly into the sun.

I am that feeling you get when you're walking alone, at night, and you feel yourself being fondled by the eyes of an unseen admirer.

I am the answer you seek but never find, even though you can taste me on the tip of your tongue like a serpent seeking its next meal.

I am the forbidden bitten fruit you've already indulged and can never again wonder about the taste of, because now you wonder of my internal, long lasting effects.

I am that ace up the sleeve of anyone but you, and I am all of your lost opportunities bound as one.

To worship me is blasphemy, and to condemn me is laughemy.

I am the words you didn't think existed but still understand when heard.

I am Fornication Under the Crown of the King.

And I am fucking astonishmentally sound ether, while all your senses are wound together.

But enough about me - let's tell a story about

you.

You pull back the curtain and squint your eyes, realizing with ^{real eyes} these _{real lies} before you cannot be just, if, eyed. You may even follow this event up by claiming it wasn't you here today, or you may ignore this all to gather an altogether reconciliation of...dementalism..? Your hand shadows your eyes from the sun to avoid that black spot formation - me again, uninvited as usual to use, you, all. ¿pɐǝɥɐ ʇɐɥʇ s,ʇɐɥʍ Why, it's a field of perfectly generic, genetically altered flora turf? Green as green can green. Of course it is, and you know that's why the grazing cows in the distance have become gargantuan, but that's besides the point.

Through the window your eyes seek something aside from the topical greenery and black spotted cows. There's that condition again - black spot. Hmmmm. Pay no mind to the snow covered tips of the pine trees on this 98 degree day, but squint those eyes and look beyond the front line and see a script for the past as you once knew it //before// your conviction of time's linearity drew away your memories simply because they had not crossed the rolling progression of dates you are so powerlessly grounded to.

And a One

Two

Three

The hand; Eli James' very own. The count; victory to the ones you recognize to be Shades and Luke Gunnar.

To think of the laugh, that graph that predicted an epitaph of Eli James' own stone - {'laid to rest by the hand of the carmine chemoreceptored divinity for attempts to poison and corrupt past's scripts'} You see, in my version of this novel, Eli James made the right decision. In my version of this novel, Eli James accepts his place far beneath those who struck him down that beautifateful Wednesday night of gauntlets and gold lettings.

Woe, Knight; accept my gratitude for your proper playing of your roles in this sub-chapter. For your acceptance, although monstrously gauche {!much like Eli's!} rings far and wide across your miniscule lands of opportunity's phantasmal billing. To believe you stood a chance was to fulfill your slots with the life you've been given as a gift, but your greater awareness was taking orders all along.

From me.

Know me, respect me, belong to me as the Crimson Face. Ever trust in anything more than you trust in me? Endeavor not for that answer; it's locked away in a field of dreams you've yet to envelop with sanctity.

And most of all, do not hold disdain in your hearts for Eli James. There was never anything he could do to efface a single line of this codex that pushes you forward, for words - my scribed tidings.

Shades, Luke Gunnar; you've come prepared for a war we must all enact with glee. While your faces may tell a lie, it is your smiling souls that will never die, and in the end he who gifted your hands the right to be raised, was I.

And I do, in fact, accept your gratitude. Now crush them; tear them asunder; their wonder shifted into the sifted crimson dust as their liquid drains down my very gullet. "

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