More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Inside the lake, scores of wailing people could be seen wading through the pool, screaming in agony, and even though their cries could not pierce the thickness of the glass window, the muted agony and terror visible on their faces transferred the terror of the situation to the five seated guests. All five were trembling and breathless.
The yellow-eyed demon swiveled back toward the three men and two women staring back at him wide-eyed with horror.
His large, goat legs sported coarse, thick hair, giving him a satyr-like aspect without the charm of a classical Pan. His torso was exceptionally well muscled, fire engine–red like his face, but covered with a thin layer of moisture from which seemed to emanate a noxious, sulfurous stench.
Yazatas.
Zoroastrianism,
Christianity certainly borrowed a great deal from the one true religion, but not enough, unfortunately. Not nearly enough.”
How odd to find a book that looks as if I wrote it, when it’s really just one of the random possibilities that exist here.
When you are ready to leave, find the book describing your earthly life story (without errors, e.g., in spelling, grammar, etc.) and submit the story through the slot below this sign. If the story is accepted, you will be admitted into a glorious heaven filled with wonders and joys beyond your imagination.
A nice Hell. I laughed at the thought. This wasn’t a bad place. It seemed like a tedious Hell, but there was plenty to eat, good company, and it sounded like after a while we would eventually get out.
solipsism
He was kicking frantically and screaming that he would kill me. And he did.
Dire Dan was gone. I was never to see him again. Nor has anyone I have ever met since. He, like me, is lost in the library.
What is love that it has such power? Whatever it is, it seems unlikely this God who placed me here knows anything about it. If it loved me in the least, could it inflict what it has upon me? Who can understand?
I ceased to think, to perceive. I was no more aware of my existence than a snail or even an amoeba might be.
Anticipation is a gift. Perhaps there is none greater. Anticipation is born of hope. Indeed it is hope’s finest expression. In hope’s loss, however, is the greatest despair.
The hope of a human relationship no longer carries any depth or weight for me, and all meaning has faded long ago into an endless grey nothingness.
Yet a strange hope remains. A hope that somehow, something, God, the demon, Ahura Mazda, someone, will see I’m trying. I’m really trying, and that will be enough.
