K told a story about some practice the ancient Chinese have done a long time ago. He said they'd build walls out of the bones and corpses of fallen soldiers to protect some city from harm. Such walls would not be able to perform their sacred duty unless the people would slit dogs' throats and spill blood on the walls.
Writing, K said, is like that. You'd have to have something, magic, perhaps, to link the unreal world of stories to our world, for it to become a legitimate story... for it to become something of our world.
I've been wanting to slit some thing's throat so bad. I've been itching to do so for days. I've been wanting to spill blood so damn much, the desire just consumes my whole consciousness.
I've been wanting to see blood so bad.
Because there'd be no ink to spill without blood.
There'd be no blood without an open wound.
I'm trying to see how far I could go without moving any part of my body. I'm trying to see how far I could look without compromising my mobility. I'm trying to gauge the limits of my mind without throwing away reality.
I'm just trying to look for that dog.
Because that dog is magic.
A lifetime ago, somebody whispered these words to me
Karren... is a silent, steady campfire on a cold mountain. She is on her way to talk to the gods.
Pardon me for fleeting time and again.
It is imperative that I talk to the gods.
They have that magic I want to have.
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