#crowley concept

[inarabbitrun]

You can dry your hands. I know how this goes, and I’m tired of it: I count rosary beads falling from my mouth like they aren’t beads of blood; I tell you Heaven’s secrets just to make you stop.

Put the knife away, I’m already screaming for you.

You know, your soul gleams like a knife. I think you may have reached for it once, but you grabbed the wrong end and liked the feel of it.

[inarabbitrun]

Actually, it's Samandriel.      Actually, it's a mistake           that I'm here in this golden room.           (Do you remember the golden room?           You should, you are here with me.)      Actually, I have no choice.           Actually, it's foil. The light peels away like the wallpaper. It's an auction. I bid I bid I bid. You take you take you take. I am the only one bidding.                I draw my paddle--quick--like a gun.                Actually, it's more quick, like a fan beating out a flame.                    Actually, you are beating me.                Actually, your arms keep waving like flames.                Actually, there are arms waving through flames.           Actually, the room is yellow.           Actually, the room is red.           Actually, the room is black.           Actually, the room is you. Actually, I bid I bid I bid you adieu. It's alright. We'll meet again.

[inarabbitrun]

i. The one who burned himself beyond recognition. (Ashes coat his lungs, so that he may cough up what he once was.)

ii. An expensive suit wraps around his vessel, tight (like bandages) and black (like the clothes at a funeral he never had).

iii. His lips scorch, his tongue licks like flames, and his breaths are hot and greedy against paper skin when he seals your deal with a wish (and your death with a kiss).

iv. He pockets your contract like a playing card; he dealt you a hand that you'll never chip in. There's a king up his sleeve because he doesn't need an ace to win (they all fold).