Ritual and sacrifice

Insomnia, old friend… How have you been?

The witching hour… That hour too late to sleep and too early to wake that haunts aging men, those poor bastards filled with longing for one thing or another.

Why three a.m.? Why not some other time? Is it true that most heart attacks occur in this hour? Or just a Bradbury trick of words?

Rituals… Magic, sacrifice, and ritual. It is this hour that growing occurs, that sacrifice had its greatest impact. No. The blood required is not from lambs or children. The best blood magic is using your own. Sacrifice, my friends, should always be internal, of the self. It is dark stuff indeed to seek to avoid the suffering of flesh by forcing others to make a sacrifice for your own sordid ends.

If insomnia plagues, then I might as well give of myself to evoke, invoke, elicit, draw forth, some kind of change in the name of the positive. Useless perhaps, but I’ve got the marks to show I at least tried.

Not that you can see but, I assure you, they are there.

Jealousy: Eric Draven grabs Shelly’s wrists almost bruising them, squeezing out the poison in her body. “Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children,” he quotes as the morphine and alcohol pours out of her arm. Perhaps he drew out her other poisons as well, for Shelly returns profoundly changed, ready to play the role she had been assigned in this grand theater of life, a mother. If only I had to power to do such things… Jealousy, but not of his skill as much as the leech guzzling life. How I want that surrender… But that’s not mine.

Rituals and sacrifice…. I’d give my flesh, I’d give up my words, I’d tear out my fucking heart if it would help heal. Draw it all out. I’d sell myself cheaply, a whore to ease the torment of one.

Three times three and nine times nine. Will there be magic in the morning which cross over the horizon even now, the faintest fingers barely visible, a glow with promise. Please bring forth a dream.

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