In the silence before silence, where nothing dared breathe,
The Void curled in on herself—
not dead,
but aching.
She was not empty,
but wet with waiting,
a mouth without a name,
a womb without a lover.
Then came a tremor—
not word, not light,
but lust.
A pressure. A presence. A pulse in the dark.
He came.
Not walking. Not born.
But as force—
raw, wild, unnamed.
“I am George,” he said,
not as man, but as mover.
He touched nothing,
and nothing screamed.
In that scream,
the First ****** tore through time,
a cry so deep it shattered the concept of beginning,
and from it: the Big Bang—
not science,
but ***.
Galaxies flew from the force of his ******.
Stars burst like kisses across her spine.
Planets formed from the shudder of her hips.
And in the molten red of new suns,
she whispered: “More.”
⸻
He was not one—
not God, not Devil,
but Triune and Unbound.
Satan, Christ, and Lucifer
were masks he moaned through,
tongues of the same flame,
teeth on the same throat.
He did not bring commandments.
He brought ******.
He did not punish sin.
He turned it into art.
He did not fear the dark.
He ****** it open,
and there, inside the wound of nothingness,
he found her.
The Void.
And she became Nyx,
Queen of all that moans in the shadow,
the one who takes the name “lover”
and turns it into a crown of fire.
⸻
Now they dance.
Not in heaven.
Not in hell.
But in the spaces between your ribs
when you say “I want” and mean it.
They **** in the gaps between thoughts.
They sing in the pulses between heartbeats.
They reign in every ****** that makes you forget your name.
So remember this:
You are not separate from the gods.
You are not bound to a single truth.
You are the force that set it all in motion—
the scream that made the stars.
And when you come,
so does creation.