Deep under hollow wind
Where our lilies grow.
Help me, my darling,
No one shall know.
Under the willow tree,
Where evil shall not sleep.
Come with me, my love,
Deep into my home.
Don't mind my mother,
Her eyes are ever closed.
Up to my bedroom,
Where they cannot see,
Give me your warmth,
And I shall not bleed.
Hold me, my everything,
The demons do not sleep.
Help me, my darling,
No one shall ever know.
Pass me the silver,
So I can write in red.
Where are you going?
I wish to not be dead.
Come with me, my darling
I shall take your head.
Goodnight, my everything.
Thank you for your warmth.
Imagine living beneath the waves with a strong-sighted blessing of most excellent fabric. Holding the fabric over your gills, you would begin to breathe-drink its warp and weft. Though the plantmatter fibers imbue your soul, the wretched plankton would pollute the cloth until it stank to heavens of prophecy. This is one manner in which the Scrolls first came to pass, but are we the sea, or the breather, or the fabric? Or are we the breath itself?
The Ritual
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