brought to you by Delirium, Herbert, and Chambers

I've such ideas. Things, floating through my brain:
ascendance of humanity to divinity, or as close to a parallel as we can get it
descendance of humanity to madness, depravity and degeneracy as we fail to reach the godhood we seek
And all the way in between, a universe that barely notices us even at our height.

It's an existentialist's wet dream. Meaning, derived as we get from it. Surrender to the whims and ways of fate, a kharmic circle that isn't actually a circle at all, and subscription to eternity strapped to the wheel.

I can touch the infinite, but only briefly, in ways that elude replication. I need more of it, I don't get enough, but too much will kill me and hollow my skin out. There, then, I will live on like the Autumn, one of the heirs of the Yellow Sign, reaching to touch the sun but burned forever by the very attempt.

That's what's wrong with the book. That's why they curse it. It spreads like wildfire, consuming everyone who gives into it: the ultimate creation, so fulfilling that to partake of it is to render life forever after an echo of its former glory. The first step afterwards is the plummet straight back down to the base of the mountain, and the fall breaks every passage you could ever conceive to get back up to the top.

What they don't tell you, what they don't talk about, is that beauty kills. You can grasp it, but you hold the blade of the knife in your hands when you do so-- and the edge is sharp, so sharp...