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232 pages, Kindle Edition
First published October 8, 2024
At the end of the beginning, the author, undead, will rise again and set aside the demon mask saying: It is I, le clerc.
This story is a monster; that is to say, this story is written by a monster.
The future is the hands of the past around our neck.
Art has no value in use, only in exchange. Art is a token entirely fungible—that is to say, reducible in its entirety to money, soft and tumble-dried. These are lies, yes, but this is the very cat's cradle of lies into which we are born and out of which we die, and if the truth were derived from consensus like sanity, then lies would be true.
So, the king made of the prince a weapon, feeding him every poisonous thing the world had to offer until the prince became the undeniable weapon his father so craved.
“It needs to give everything at once. A bouquet of pain. After, whatever suffering they may want to inflict on another, they will know its true fruit.”