Hooks rend. New blasphemies configurate upon the inside of my eyelids; tales worked in blood and bone and flesh and semen, traced in spittle; a dash of bile here, a slice of kidney there.
Gather round damned children, and together we shall lament and celebrate the configuration that made us what we are, today and forever.
So: do you writhe and shiver in the pangs of darling agnonies undreamable, wriggling and gasping and giggling, anticipating the tumescent thrill of another's damnation?
The plasma ceases to pump through the arteries, the liver no longer secrets bile, the urine dries to salt in the bladder, but the blood washes over us all.
In the night of hell, that glows with its own black light, I remember the burning spasms and freezing pangs that beset me when our lord took me and terribly refashioned me according to his will.
Will it ever, can it ever, be that good again?
Ripped to shreds and patched together, I knew then consummately what I was. What I am. What I always will be...
Look at my words. (Examine the writhing tapestries of choice delight implicit in each scratching and each syllable.)
I guard the words.
I keep them tenderly, express them with my tangled flesh and tattered tongue.
Words that form stories, or tales, or patterns.
Words that can but hint at the delights of damnation, of the ultimate pleasures that wait for them all on the beyondside of pain.
Stay with me, my shattered children. Stay and listen and stare and learn. Was that tale good?
I'll show you another.
I've got thousands of them. I hold the stories. I guard the words.
(Wordsworth, Neil Gaiman & Dave McKean.)