From the coffin-like basement, my imagination rises above the pale off-white walls, black rain and dying grey clouds and enters your mind. I keep going, brushing against history, intruding, walking past fallen statues and half-ripped pages, until I reach your soul—an enclosed path. In my thoughts you are saying a prayer and I the object of your prayer. Sweet, saccharine, comforting. The way you utter my name, slowly the letters dancing between your lips before they flow, putting me at peace. A smile. I chart your pronunciation and it seems so familiar, alive, eternal. Pause.
No sunlight. Your voice begins to scatter, break, split— a rupture. Backfire. Wildfire. Now you’re speaking a different language, spitting discordant words, acidic letters down my imagination—a blank void develops and memories rush in. I can’t control your speech; it slithers in different directions, eventually the weight of your tongue insurmountable against my desires, my naivety, my hopes. All false. This is real. Irrevocable. With the mask withdrawn, you begin cursing me, your words soaking every inch of my flesh. This performance leaves me scattered. I’m back in my basement with my imagination on fire, my body pale, my eyes darkening, my soul dying. It burns.