Chapter 54: Part 9.5: Drowsy confusion of the narrative
And if I spoke of him in such a desperate way, so fast that it could be misinterpreted, if I have given with that some spoiler about the purposes of, I'm going to call it, "The Dark Hand"; and if there is zero creativity in the name I have designated (quite pretentious, I must admit) to this character; it is because the imposture and the spoilers at high speed generate that you, reader, possess an interest, before only pure curiosity, puzzled and "sour" with respect to my narration.
Do you remember that transparency unknown to every immortal or mortal being?
Well, yours possesses a special gift, and that is that you, by living other lives through imagination inspired by words, have caused your soul to embrace itself.
Sounds good, doesn't it?
You see, when your soul embraces itself, it means that it literally rolls itself into a ball. It shrinks to such an extent that, why do you think your mother has to scream from the first one for you to go to dinner when you are like the gargoyles in Note dram when your human eye catches a glimpse of them, you become mentally absorbed in your reality and well, that's as far as it goes. But no, no, that "soul point" that you have left to return to its normal size has to pull back to itself the source that made it feel so alive the experience of the letters... me and the editor.
Is that why you are writing sleepily?
Your soul point takes away the independent life of my neurons, that is to say, it turns them practically into statues, without a trace of their own judgment. As for the editor, there are no neurons from which you can capture some breath of conscious life, no, what catches your soul point is the spectrum of the 80's music she is listening to while she writes what I dictate to her in an indirect way.
Even if you haven't known the characters well enough (what would Lucifer expect?) the breaths of the lives of my neurons swimming within the musical spectrum make you feel how real this story is and how naive the writer is for believing that this is a product of her creativity (as if anything belongs to us).
Now I have no doubt that it is her passion that is making me see the bubble made of my cloud. However, the mixture between the lives of my neurons and her musical spectrum, besides making your soul return to factory size, spreads throughout the "cloud field" that houses her mind.
The replicas of the demon (who I no longer know if he is so much in love, why doesn't he do anything until now?) merge into a single inanimate fire; the shadows of the small fatuous fires that I visualized on the row of clouds at my side, end their journey and mine with a sharp blow that vibrates the bubbles made of clouds. Then, these bubbles are enveloped in flames of a faded blue color like the beginning of a sickly night.... and I speak and continue narrating because; although my cloud has been gone for 7 human days and that's why the editor has had a thousand obstacles this week to upload this chapter, when I was about to lose all my neurons and the spectrum was going to become invisible (as apparently happens with everything mysterious and really important for the mind of Luz), only useful to highlight a golden breath of life (made of my neurons, "thanks for taking the burden of being so wise"), I could do something that no cat has achieved in his life ... but I did not know that I could do something that no cat has achieved in his life. ... but I didn't know it would turn out like this.
That something is acidic means that the bonds of the pygmy elements that make up that something turn out to be weak and; therefore, it is easy to disintegrate that something. Thanks to your acid transparency, it didn't come out the first time (you can imagine how long it took me), at the last moment I managed to capture the lines between the fingers that covered you when you embraced yourself. When the reader's magic has passed, those lines remain in your soul, they are proof that there is a path that you avoid and that cuts through more than any obstacle you may have in your reality.
This path needed something that the typical golden light could not touch: my words. And I have disappeared inside the cloud, but I have not yet disappeared from this universe (I am on the edge). I managed to get the lines between your fingers, I just had to sing the song of the zombie fairy that has the mind of Light in a realistic dream.
However, in order to be able to sing I used part of the lines in order to sharpen the demon's inanimate fire. With it I was able to draw the physical projection of my passion, I created claws of giant fire... death loves to play with indecision (lines from the sketch of a dream waiting).
I need only blow with all my might, with human perseverance clothed in whimsy (why can't Light admit that he does believe he has the strength he needs to get what he wants?), and an almost invisible speck of line is drawn out of your soul and carried through the specter to the tip of my nose.
It's there... it's there... I'm supposed to narrate it, but this place is the interior of the point of one of the lines that I took from you... but isn't the inside of the most mysterious part of a teenager (it's almost invisible for a reason) a "high voltage zone"?
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