Arbitrary bibliomantic choice of words from notebook circa Apr 2003

The prayer of one with pain in his soul.

Who do I have to kill?
What lies do I have to tell?
Who do I sell my soul to, oh Lord?

The reply of the Lord

I am all powerful
Mr invisible
Justice, yeah.

Don’t be miserable
Take up your handgrenade
And take control, yeah

[By 4.15, I could no longer see the earth

By 4.17, the last angels had bid me farewell and I was racing through the interstellar void towards the face of god.

Frost began to gather on my wings. It was bitterly cold, and it was dark. Blackness, with the icy pinpoints of stars: in every direction, forever.]