The mortar was fashioned long, long ago, by a long, long dead solar deity. It is heavy, and ornate, and clad in the umbra of nether realms from other planes of existence. The hooked bones of a dying cosmic Coelacanth garnish the outer portion, and a faint blue light courses through them. Some of its life-force echoes in those bones still, it pulses and hums in time with the beat of reality itself. The pestle, a cruel, ugly and twisted work of darkness, was crafted and grafted from a triarchy of lovers, lost to time, lost to history, lost to dust. These are the perfect tools for this unique task : the erasure of memories. From my mind, and into the mortar, I let flow the memories to be excised. Silvery strands coalesce into a mercurial soup, cooling in time into a paste, and then it is poured into ingots. Every kiss, every touch, every memory, every you, every me : they're pulled from me, and cast into the void of all sorrows.
At first, in this nothingness that subsumes me, all there is is pain, a formless pain. The pain. It is shapeless. It's cold and blunt. I shape it into a jagged knife. The knife takes away my name - my name is a sacrifice. The blade takes away my heart - this heart is a testament. The knife snuffs out the stars above - no Pleiades are loosed in December. The knife plunges herself deep in my heart - this knife is a memento of forever lost nights of passion and doom. The ritual is completed, the Norns sated. My soul lies bare in this altar, my outstretched fingers ever reaching yours . Yours, the pillars of creation, shining beacons in a sea of eternal nigh, mine the evanescent sign of a fallen time that's bygone. We dance, and the music dies. We, the gods, we ourselves, kings and queens of our kingdoms, here in the threshold of winter's twilight, we fall prey to a bleak, cold irrelevance.
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