The soul was not a chamber, nor a crystal, but a geography of perpetual descent. It was the vast, subterranean architecture of a sleeping mind—a labyrinth constructed not of stone, but of ossified regret and the heavy, sepulchral dust of ages. The air here was still and cold, carrying the metallic tang of dried blood and forgotten incense, a scent that lingered because nothing was ever truly relinquished.
The amber liquid in my glass was a snarky cathedral for small, terrible things. To circumvent my taste for Manischewitz, aged in delirium. They were there swimming in the smoky depths—the haunting angels of Paranoia, fallen not from grace, but from the brittle architecture of my own deleted mind. They had found a home in the whiskey, a spiraling golden ‘noie’ whispering against the glass.
An army of soul seekers, making desperate efforts to retrieve lost parts of their souls. Blood magic, smudging rituals, invocations. In vain, all in vain. They all got lost in the entangled passages of the labyrinth, never discovering the true nature of the soul. In monotonous repetitions, they tried to seduce me. They would never get my soul. Never ever! I took a deep sip from my glass.
The velvety liquid ran soothingly down my throat. A quick look at the whiskey reassured me that the fallen angels had vanished. Relieved, I leaned back and poured myself another double. Transparent hands reached out of the glass for me. Hysterically giggling, I shook my head. No, they wouldn’t catch me! I hadn’t played attention to the strange pull at my chest, and went on drinking. Paranoia dropped from my lips. Slowly and tenderly, I was drawn into the glass. Another lost soul in the dance of fallen angels.
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