Oleg. Meredith. His muse now free shows him the way to write to paint. The truth in life. Without disdain he’d come to know sitting alonepages not blank. Now all he’s operating on excess disgust grandeurous thinking father’s blood on his hands he writhes and contorts realizing his blood wont change the world.
Edit the False
Credit the truth.
The frustration has been risen from inside. His sense of duty no longer quenched by ink and paper. Violent thoughts encourage him.
Oleg. Making Meredith timorous.
Apotheosis twisted with blackened magic. Oleg sees the presence of entering the voices beckoning him. Meredith shelling through her sadness she is frantic shaking deeply fused to the bark in the pillar of his mind.
Language that burns their world Oleg will strip her from the tree with a spell that once was a poem written for her. It’s now her epitaph.