Imagine being wrapped up in Asura’s endless bundles. The stubborn fabric is very silky, neigh unbreakable, a piece of a demigod of death. Slowly, it will lick your subtle skin underneath its tight entrapment, sensing the blood that pumps through your veins, eager to dig deeper and patiently churn the fear and sorrow buried inside.
Smooth tendon, dull of color. Cold as ice and arrogant nihilism; it is the Kishin's prison and only escape. Reject it, ignore it, and deny it. The tough tainted fabric of his accursed flesh, perfect for numbing perception, doubt, and the suffocating paranoid surrounding and invading his meaningless existence in this scary, flithy, rotten world.
Can you imagine that? Stuck forever, in a dark case, made of your own blood, sweat, and tears. Belonging to a face you no longer recognize.
( Insanity; feel everything and nothing at all. Smile through the pain, laugh at the ridicule. Madness; to lash out at everything and take it all down with you, burn God at the stake. Tear the limb off, and ignore the consequences of your impulses.)
Asura’s clothes are the most convenient remedy he owns. His fleece, his pride, and joy. The closest thing to comfort Asura ever knew; an illusion of safety and crude deattachment. Yet, this shell is also another painful source of misery, a poor imitation of security.
These fabrics are a powerful, grotesque extension of himself. A blunt reminder of the immortal prison that is his flesh and blood, he covets absolute power from the lord father that refuses him proper relief and respite. He craves complete control over his rightful stance in the cycle of nature. The Kishin's own tainted skin, a destructive weapon, a useful blanket to isolate himself. To drown in make-shift darkness, fully forgotten from the blatant vulnerability of the outside world. The same lonely darkness his father, great Death, manipulated into a malicious cage. To imprison Asura from the material plane, banishing him alone with nay else but Asura's thoughts and immense resentments.
Asura will command his bandages to cover you and swallow you in their harsh, silent silhouette. To imprint mean designs on you, a fragment from a fragment. A gift from a god to his favored weakling.
A selfish cocoon of blissful ignorance, complete control over you, masterfully churning your fear and sorrow into tightly knitted helplessness. No sound mind, no sound body. Asura sees this mental and physical suppression of human autonomy and the equipped senses as a temporary cruelty, to take from you the current future and rewrite it anew into something utterly empty of mistrustful influence, something instantaneous and always present.
Asura revisions it as a necessary road to take to freedom, to thoroughly suspend you in a certain momentum. Seeing you wear him, the coward's ward, it's an odd and extremely obsessive reassurance that you still exist at his beckoning hand even against your will.
Asura wants to be loved, as much as it terrifies him to the core. He wants you to reject everything else grounding you to the planet but him, to relax and allow madness to thoroughly liberate you from fear and feeble, arbitrary aspirations.
Won't you join him in this insanity? These pleasures?
He aims to gradually seal you in pure insanity, to join him as a fellow thrall of absolute madness and chaos. Let it all go, these worthless insects. He wants to strip you of your human connections, of any hope and independence, your agency tied upon him. Asura will carve to mold and melt himself on you, wearing his ripped flesh like a second skin, folding over every inch of you.
