Golden Scapegoat's Mutterings

(6)

16 The avalanche once came. He is a diligent dinghy, drifting along the frozen waterfall, pursuing that {RUBY_B#lamb}prey{RUBY_E#} carved into his soul. He travels against the light, for he remembers that he hasn't placed the firelight that brightens the world on its zenith. He recites his desires with blood, for the air on that zenith is so thin it suffocates — only the language of blood can leave traces in thoughts. "I am the shepherd." The golden fleece in the dream slumbers in the sanguine seabed. 16B Too many people die too late, yet some die too soon. The lamb says that death is a major affair as worthy of import as the most grandiose festival. Festivals won't just happen once, but death cannot be rewound. "But you have already stepped on the altar countless times. I am the {RUBY_B#killer}assistant priest{RUBY_E#} after all, so I know it well." "That wasn't me. Seriously, it wasn't." "Don't pretend to be so relaxed." "You're right. Sorry." To deliver the {RUBY_B#light}fire{RUBY_E#}, {RUBY_B#sinners}we{RUBY_E#} killed ourselves every time.