The Sacrament

Bliss as words like wine pour over a pure slate, staining it with their meaning and reddening it with their tones. Fervor takes over; the scene unfolds like something already decided as one letter follows another like drops from a chalice, dripping until it overflows. My neck is craned from fatigue and out of reverence as ideas become flesh before my eyes. Each word is holy— each character is bread to the wine of emotion. Sleep is a martyr, dead on the altar of my craft. My hands shake from the caffeine flooding my bloodstream and the adrenaline joining it as the ritual continues. This story is my body. These words are my blood. I do this for remembrance— the hope that I can become something more than what I am.