Crimson I: Letter from Luther
Daemon,
The nights seem darker, despite my increased awareness between the hours of 19:00 and 7:00. Between those hours, I feel like I can actually see, for the first time. Each instance, just as real as the previous. By now I would have thought to be used to it. Yet here I am, crouched over my desk reflecting, just as impatient. I write to you now, in purgatory, and awaiting deliverance.
I miss you, Daemon. And yet, we change so quickly I’m almost certain I may only be missing a memory of you. If I can be honest, between those hours of 19:00 and 7:00, it’s all I can think about. A scent manifested only after suffocation, your scent, holding me hostage. The feeling your hand would leave behind after letting go of mine—my fingers acutely aware of missing skin. Between those hours, those sensations make up most of my existence.
We are, I am, free, here, Daemon. Freedom in flesh, freedom in will, freedom in crimson. Flesh. Will. Crimson. It’s beautiful. Yet you refuse. You insist on suffering, feral, and human. It’s undignified.
Flesh. Will. Crimson, Daemon
I’ll show you, and we could share in deliverance together.
Until then,
Luther