How to propagate. Page thirty seven of the guiding hand. The gilded binding, pages thin and crisp as shed serpent skin. Flipping dismissively to this oh so important segment, I resume my relentless study. How. To. Propagate.
How ludicrous. How utterly, unbelievably ideal. Everything is spelled out in simple commandments of a long dead messiah, an errant poet with unrecognized genius rattling within his damaged brain. The thoughts, the knowledge, the wisdom took shape - forming into hissing scarabs that ripped, chewed, clawed, and tore their way out of his mind and poured from his ears. They scuttled viciously, furiously down his shoulders to his hands -
And from there, he transferred them to these pages.
These horrid, evil thoughts. These cruel, sadistic urges. These deranged ideas.
With deep anguish, he put them upon these pages so that we might be saved. So that we might find paradise.
How to propagate.
Simple.
Lift your tome and place it under your arm.
Step forth from your home and find the nearest street.
Close your eyes and walk forward. See not with the body that binds you to this rotting, mortal realm. See with the soul that God has bestowed with promise of paradise lost. See the spires, the jagged peaks that erupt from the earth on either side, impaling vermin, infants, sinners and saints alike. See the meat, bile, and carnage strewn about.
This world is not for us. This world is not for you.
But we can escape. We can find the paradise that God sought to create so long ago.
The promise was delayed, but not broken. Keep your pace. Keep forward.
Find those who would question your path, what guides you, as your eyes remained closed.
Present your tome. Present your wisdom. Awaken them from their apathy and their resignation.
Give them hope again. Show them the way to paradise. Have them show others.
Spread my words. Propagate the faith.
I have read this passage countless times. I have burned every inch of it into my mind. I can feel the messiah's pleas, hear his relentless sobbing echoing from every room of my apartment. He knew so much. He understood... so... much. And such wisdom is accompanied by profound pain. And abject terror.
I know because even I can feel the faint twinges along my fingertips and shoulders - the throbbing ache behind my temples. The scarabs are forming within me, too. They scuttle beneath my skin and grow with each passing day.
My time is coming soon.
Once I successfully propagate the faith.
Then my scarabs will burst forth - and I will put what I have learned onto new pages.
I can save you. All of you. I will succeed where the messiah failed. I will lead you all to paradise.
God will be reborn.