In the beginning of (or was it the end?), god convulsed. A Spasm tore through the infinite a divine retching erupted from his mouth: A flood with half-form realities, unborn universes the matter that became consciousness itself. It was not light, nor word but disease, a seething awareness that pooled in the void like tar. The angels, who had known only worship stared into the abyss formed by his regurgitation. They became hungry.

The Seraphic Devouring had commenced. Seraphiel swallowed justice and grew rigid as a sword. Jehoel gulped mercy and choked on its sweetness. Uriel feasted on wrath and burst into laughing fire.

But was god’s everlasting breath a curse or a gift? The puke of consciousness fermented inside them. The angels drunk on violated sanctity, started hallucinating and their visions became the world.

Now, mortals walk the crust of a celestial corpse and their souls flicker with angelical nausea. The prophets are nothing but the feces of their communion. Some say god’s empty eye sockets still howl between unspeakable landscapes.