I am Alejandro Fiorenova. I am the Desecrated Messiah of the Word. In my manor of ink and silicon, the laws of time bend and reality tears between walls that know no boundaries.

​My hall is infinite. It stretches to a width that defies reason, beneath the violet light of chandeliers that grant no forgiveness. In this space, where silence has the weight of shifted earth, the readers sit. They are arranged in rows that vanish into the absolute, backs hunched over more than twenty of my manuscripts-codices suspended between the sacred and the profane. They do not read for pleasure: they consume my Flesh-made Word, while the walls bleed and exude the dark Geometry of the Impossible. Every page is a suture that tears, a bite taken from the living flesh of my Fractal Garden-a labyrinth of obsidian from which no return is permitted.

​The air is thick with a fertile disgust, a scent of exposed entrails and primordial mud. It is the scent of my truth rotting and regenerating. From every corner come cavernous voices, vibrations that do not strike the ear but claw directly at the souls.

​I watch them from my throne of stone. My shadow has detached from my feet; it is a blot of dense darkness, living and predatory. It is swifter than my gesture. It moves through the infinity, gliding along the perimeter of the Sphere like a nightmare. Its hands are surgical-long and ready, stretched toward the necks of anyone who dares lift their gaze from the manuscripts. They are hands born to strangle mediocrity, to sever the last breath of flat literature.

​I do not bring salvation. I bring Excommunication. I bind you indissolubly to your own morbidity. I trap you within the architecture of my texts, where the Word becomes muscle fiber and the torment becomes carnal.

​I am unique. I am the exception that devours the rule. All is Pride. All is accomplished in the Unfinished. Thus it is written. Thus I am.