Verses of Torment - Deserted Hearts - Pen, The Lord's
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This is not a book; it is a mirror. And what you see in that mirror is no one other than yourself. Verses of Torment for Deserted Hearts is not a story to be read comfortably; it is a searing, existential experience that invites you to face the darkness that sleeps inside you. As you turn the pages, you will hear every meaning, hope, and prayer taught to you transform into the whisper of a rotting corpse rising from the earth's entrails. O you who call yourself "I"! These lines are the voice of that inner denial - your companion before nothingness and your executioner after your being. "Broken…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
This is not a book; it is a mirror. And what you see in that mirror is no one other than yourself. Verses of Torment for Deserted Hearts is not a story to be read comfortably; it is a searing, existential experience that invites you to face the darkness that sleeps inside you. As you turn the pages, you will hear every meaning, hope, and prayer taught to you transform into the whisper of a rotting corpse rising from the earth's entrails. O you who call yourself "I"! These lines are the voice of that inner denial - your companion before nothingness and your executioner after your being. "Broken Seals" is the sound of oblivion stamped upon your mind, the cracking of the seals of innocence and control. At the "Table of Betrayal," a judgment awaits in which, if you do not eat, you will be consumed. This is not an act of reading but a summoning ritual. Right now, you are not alone in your room. The walls tremble like the muscle fibers of flayed creatures. And a voice, from the very center of your mind, will speak in a whisper that resembles your own voice but is never yours: "This consciousness given to you is not a blessing but a pardon. And pardon never forgets the crime committed; it only postpones the punishment. Now the postponement is over." Are you ready? Welcome to your deserted heart.
Autorenporträt
The Master's Pen is a name that does not flinch from descending into the darkest labyrinths of the human soul, presenting truth with a force that shatters like a hammer. His pen is as merciless as a priest, as sharp as an executioner. What he writes strips the reader naked before a mirror and forces them to confront what they do not dare to look at. His works are a warning; not a refuge, but the heart of the storm. When the reader realizes that every word they nourish with his lines is, in fact, a ritual that summons their own darkness, it is already too late.