You read from the book.
That ancient, accursed grimoire;
that diabolic tome with the secrets of
time, space, and death held within.

It came from the wall.
Unholy specter of primordial nightmares,
shifting from that nether-realm
into ours.

It stands in the corner.
With eyes unblinking, it watches you
when you close your eyes,
points out your flaws, failures, regrets.

You have no choice.
The past — a hopeless stain.
The future — a bleak, opaque blur.
Only one path to walk now.

It slides back into the wall,
back into the dark dimension it
emerged from, to again reappear
from another’s wall — another
who read from the book.