The sentence screams until it breaks into paragraphs.
And paragraphs—should not breathe.
But these do. Their indents gasp, their commas wheeze, their periods pulse like clogged hearts. They spill into the white space, crawling across the page like centipedes made of clauses. One drags itself up your leg, punctuating your skin with ellipses.
"Incomplete thought…" it whispers, over and over.
The text begins to move without you. Sentences devour each other. A simile strangles its own subject. A metaphor gorges itself until it collapses into cliché. You try to run, but the page folds in on itself, making escape only another paragraph.
And paragraphs, now, are predators.
APPENDIX CXVI: THE REDRAFT
The Villain returns again—no longer flesh, no longer character.
He is redline incarnate.
