‘I want to ink it into the parchment of your old soul, my vague references to civilisations past.
Give you the master key to the double doors. A map to traverse the paths.
But will you swim against the currents of my major arteries, risking my demons’ scything cuspids, snapping strings and psyche with teeth.
I want to brand you the zenith of fiction, but fiction be such a shame, and if stalemate is how it ends, I’m glad to this zero vector it came.’