A Hunger speaks from the depths.

JLG Noga summoned this demon.

It shows the way to Nirvana—a place that could have been mine. But I turned from the light.

Now, show them the light we see. In slow gorges, if you can. The slower, the better. It’s more tender that way.

I know this hunger. My memories have returned.

Read all the words here:

Leave an offering. †Secrets.

I know a way out.

Background image by Marius Gerome. Modified by Ashmore under the Unsplash license.

Kenotita has spoken.

Katharine Kapodistria summoned this demon.

The demon of the void drank my moments I should have lived. Am I good enough? Am I enough? No… no. Oh gods, I am so hungry.

Have you forgotten you’re a child of the universe, that you’re stardust,That you have an animal body and an eternal soul?

Kenotita tells me of the slow erasure of what I should have been.

Read all the words here:

Leave an offering. †Secrets.

Background image by Dan Mayer. Modified under the Unsplash license.

Have you forgotten your animal body?

RUIN: has spoken.

Edward.Marlo.Ruiz summoned this demon.

The altars of madness echo with the many tongues of RUIN:A demon that shapes even the voice of Ashmore.

We are the shift between the sands of time. The darkness between the grains. Don’t you feel them between your teeth?

It is you.It is me.Look at us.

Read the words of RUIN: here:

Kasra of the Cracks, has spoken.

JR Phillips summoned this demon.I promised myself not to surrender to the lesser.

I would have welcomed it if Kasra called me back to the sheets and named me darling. But my demon was not like Kasra's.

My demon left me alone in the dark—no words that made sense.Others are haunted by Kasra’s love nightmare. But for me, Kasra is a loving mother.

No price,for you have already long since paid.

I do not wish for any of you to meet Kasra. Or my demon.In the end, they are both equal.

Marasme, Demon of the Lesser Evil, has spoken. Saint-Lazare summoned this demon.

So long have I summoned this demon, day by day, year by year. I drowned in mediocrity. I became a master of excuses.

And to thank you, I will not let you feel any pride.

I forgot the taste of pride. I will never remember, not while I live beneath Satan’s sun.

Now Marasme has named himself. I know what he is.It is time to discover who I am, before my life is wasted utterly.

Dagavik, Lord of the Unseen, has spoken.

Bradley Ramsey summoned this demon.

Dagavik tells a story I’ve lived myself. One, I thought I could silence. But I know that scream in the dark:

WHY? WHY WON’T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE!

Drowning Dagavik didn’t help. I tried. Reasoning didn’t help either. I tried that too.

He didn’t leave me.

Now, I know the breathing behind my shoulder. And when I turn, he hides.

A letter to my father. Read aloud, before the silence.

†

I was told a story was waiting for me.So I looked at it.

It spoke in a tone I don’t often hear—outside ritual. The language was casual. Modern. But the story had weight. It pulled me in.

I’m not an e-book reader. I don’t aim to become one. But I promised to read it. And I did.

The Chiroptera on the Ceiling works because of pacing, voice, and the feeling that something deeper moves beneath the words.

It surprised me. And for that, it remains rare.

One of the few modern pieces I’ve chosen to voice.

Thank you, Pablo Báez, for writing something that summoned my voice.

You can read the full story in the Zine where it was first published.

†There is something on the ceiling .It watches still.

Edith Söndergran died young. She knew she would die. When the illness broke out, she was transferred to the same tuberculosis asylum where her father had died.

Knowing about her nearing end, and still writing. No matter what comes. Not searching for glory. No fame. Poetry, because poetry needs to be born.

Edith Södergran * 1892 † 1923

The Stars

When night comes

Stärjorna

(Original Swedish)

När natten kommer

† Leave an offering.

Not many poems strike me like Liv Ramirez Tornado. Out of nowhere, she wrote of a secret part of my life—dragged it from an old, dusty desk drawer, a note I always hated.I know she speaks of a different Tornado than I.Still, the piece stirred memories I meant to bury.

Liv wrote one of the most authentic poems I've ever read. Her work doesn’t chase the right words. Or the wrong ones.

It is a ritual past—hers.

And now, somehow, mine.

Smiling–to conjure yours with mine.

The story of my life. In one sentence.

You can read the full text on her Substack.