Manifest No

An interactive novel: weird, confusing, icy. Everything gained is loss. What is held bleeds as one wrings what matters most. We are all trapped in our desires' viscera, my skin, a mail impervious to x falling in snapped shapes. Totality, what terror springs upon its pilgrims, is it not best to seek a single perfect second and winter eternity there? And yet we fill up the faulty ongoing. Hunt my formerality and ravage me, dump my scarred corpse in the water, assume my guise veins, live my life as this lingering simulacrum in search of the apex moment before ultimate decay, ultimate disgrace, I am not revealed to be who possesses me. Trapped by my own momentum a molten enshaming. Shortfuse forcer bundled broken on the cliff I could not beg summits from besensed for the moment the sun pierces briefly the great and gray to bask the fallen silent forever in split warmth until unto rainy ages time consigns the corpse. She whose name I would not wish to whisper lest she overhear my bent spine snapping, her close passage is the light by which this longing to thrust forth shoots rootless shoots through ribcage mine to slipping freedom, some foreign unseen where could I congeal again new fleshlies no longer lying in yesteryear filths. Anchors forestalling my mind its free flight, I opened my mouth to choke on squalls, to taste what presumes not death.