net.

My world is absolute. There's a quantifiable component to love, to madness, to red and to black. In my world the only mystery worth plumbing is the dark heart of a man's soul. And I have been to the empty places on your maps to find the bottom of my own dark heart.

But I've never seen a door. A ghost door that appears. A door that is blank slate and cool gleaming metal. A door with plum-purple writing. I went through this door. Or rather, I opened the door and through it came my typewriter.

HOLY SHITSNACKS