The Book of Madness does not simply contain fear of the unknowable things in the void-it cultivates it. Its pages do not rest. They breathe. They wait. They remember. Every word etched within it gnaws at the fragile boundary between knowing and unraveling, pulling at threads that were never meant to be touched. It does not teach, it reveals-and what it reveals is not meant for anything that still hopes to remain whole. You stare into the void, and the void stares back.
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