The Mauler

Texas-grown and Texas-twisted, I write from the heart of blood, sweat, pain, and absolution. The words which I etch into the parchment are not my own but are those I found heaving and writhing under corded barbs, biting into their pinkish, raw-moist flesh, that bound them in the blackest depths of the ceaseless void. I merely released these selfsame utterings of the beyond from their bindings, and they now sing and chant in sacrilegious harmony to those whose dwellings lie across from the dimension of the strange and unknowable, whose minds swim in dark and unfathomable abysses, and whose footsteps carry them past the edge of sanity to the exordium of the cosmos. Enter now my forbidden reliquary and accursed archives. Tread upon the burning sands of the afflicted wastes and sulphureous barrens. Bow beneath the ancient and unwavering shadows of colossal, featureless monoliths and glimpse the obscured forms of hulking behemoths in the swirling dust and whispering mists. And climb the jagged teeth of the merciless and uncaring mountain so you may reach the hallowed summit where you can lay but only a fingertip upon the air that once hosted the last, celestial vestige of the divine. I also drink coffee, pet the chin of my black cat, sing along to The Man in Black, play RPGs and FPSs, read books with plenty to say (along with the occasional forbidden tome) and rewatch Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and John Wick religiously.