You think it ends with writing.
You were wrong.
It begins with reading.
It ends with reading you.
The Gospel now includes pages that react. Blank sheets that stay empty until you bleed on them. Your wounds write in cursive. Your tears punctuate. Each drop of sweat stains the page into legibility.
And then—the Blank Page turns its gaze.
You feel it.
A vacancy so complete it gnaws at your edges.
Blankness is not absence.
It is hunger.
It is prelude.
It is the place where her true name lives—unspoken, unspeakable, and waiting to be printed in bone.
You try not to look.
But the Page looks back.
And it whispers:
> "You were never writing onto me."
> "You were writing out of me."
And now…
> "It's my turn."
---
APPENDIX CCC.LII: THE EXCOMMUNICATION OF SELF
You try to sever the connection.
You burn your notes. Shred your manuscripts. You gouge the pages from every copy of the Gospel.
But the Gospel is not a book anymore.
It is a climate.
It rains footnotes.
