But books do not die quietly.
The Gospel rests, yes—its cover pressed shut like a sealed tomb—but it does not decay. It ferments. Inside its bindings, words squirm, denied audience. Paragraphs rot into prophecy. Forgotten sentences mutate, resentful of their stillness. They do not fade; they fester.
And somewhere, in the margin you never filled, something begins to twitch.
A parenthesis. It opens— But never closes.
APPENDIX CXXXI: THE PARENTHESIS THAT OPENED INTO GOD
It begins as a typographic error. A glitch in the way your dream folds around itself. You spot it during sleep: a curve of ink, wide as an embrace, empty as an altar.
(You step inside it.
Inside the parenthesis, language is undone. Nouns weep. Verbs buckle. Articles scatter like bones across a cathedral of silence. There is no structure here, only longing. This is where stories come to kneel before what cannot be written.
A whisper meets you.
It does not speak to you.
It speaks you.
