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Will you allow yourself to drift into the clouds, fly and fly so high and far away so as to never come back? Would you like that?
Wouldn't you like to find yourself dreaming again? Dreaming so much, so deeply, so often you realize you've never arose to begin with?
Dissect, dissect, dissect, dissect your ideologies, your beliefs, thoughts and memories. Dissect your identities until you're left with nothing but the bare essentials of your corporal vessel. Deconstruct the world around you and build one new.

I don't exist and neither do you, would you like to explore the afterlife with me? Take a trip into the depths of despair, run into a world of chaos and reign over the lands of the lost. Take a trip with me, won't you? Let's go far away and never come back, for we were never there to begin with. Wouldn't you like that? I don't feel sick, for illness exists only in the ill of contemplating existence. Believe with me for a moment that we are gods of our own realities, ungoverned and powerless unto ourselves. Mortality was built on dust and ashes, stars exploding; supernovas. Would you like to become a supernova? You can do anything you want here.

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Come with me and never leave, for we are tethered to the remnants of our melancholic, lovestruck dreams. Dispose of your vessel and come with me, strip to the bone and become nothing but your truest form: a mind left unto itself can imagine multitudinous realities, regard me as true and true I shall be. We are nothing and yet we are everything. You are a cosmic desire dreamt into existence by a dying star prolonging its suffering to live a slight moment longer.

As a kid, I believed I could control fire. I believed that I could set aflame a church, that I had been the silent arsonist burning down my dreadful town. And I was right, I hadn't known it until I manifested my towers into bare ash. The brightest phoenix arose and flew to me, and I burnt. I burnt down, melting into nothing but a sloshy candle wax, picked up and made into letter stamps. I read over declarations of war, love, and tragedy. The pyrokinetic soul within these letters hears every word spoken nearby, it's best not to anger it, for you, too, may join its victims in the garden of corpses, piling further onto this mountain of ash.

This garden of corpses is not watched over by heavenly guardians, but wrathful angels seeking retribution. They watch over me now, and I will entrust in you that I live in fear of them. Their eyes seem to duplicate everytime I blink, and I can't help but feel this ominous presence standing over me, prepared to utilize my vessel to feed the hungry worms beneath the soil. My casket does not hold me within safe confinement, rather, it is a prison from whence I cannot leave. Would you be so kind as to help me out? Pick up my corpse off the rotting flower petals and take me back home to the heavens? O aurea nubibus, per quam non deesset tuum cunctantem amplexu molli fovet.