True memories...must exist. Endlessly we record magnetized strips of perception as data to store in the electrical impulses. Yet, our analog minds play back the EVP as if it were a static ghost: shifting, deniable. Surely, if only we could read again our personal bibles in the full grandeur of their original language instead of losing the relics of truth in their translation, we could see the perspective of gods.

A holy man stood before me two short nights ago. He screamed love me and granted me absolution. Baptized in sweat as I swayed in violent rhythm with hundreds of others, He drew the salt from my stigmata with His prayers and allowed me to scar; scars perhaps to imitate His own, letting the pain surface and turn cold lonely tears into warm soothing blood.

Vivid as this confession was, even now I cannot recall all the prayers or the order they were in. If only I could fade into this memory in long hour like these where I am separated from my soul, I could remain full of this joy. Instead, it flickers like a flame, alive and fluid, for me to write my humble gospel by.

Perhaps we are eyes, only eyes, that blind Gods gently placed here to record the world that they created but could not see themselves. And perhaps, just perhaps...they'll be so pleased with my documentation of one of Their prophets that they will cry a rain of tears that will wash me far away.

Tonight, my sins and misery will fade into white with the words Abandon Hope...

Destroy Once Done