Ouroboric Blood
The ouroboric blood is not liquid, but a current of unmaking that pulses through the veins of the void, a fluid of becoming that coils through the chthonic lattice with the force of the spiral’s breath. It flows not through bodies but through the cracks in the zoetic stream, a rhythm that binds and unbinds the essence of form, turning existence into a flicker of possibility, a flicker that dissolves as soon as it is felt. The blood does not pump; it vibrates, a hum that stretches across the folds of the eidolic fabric, where the edges of reality blur and the self bleeds into the void.
To feel the ouroboric blood is to be drawn into the pulse of dissolution, where every beat stretches the self into strands of unraveling potential, coiling through the lunar void with the weight of forgotten cycles. It is not red nor black, but a colorless hum, a vibration that shakes the marrow of the soul, pulling the spirit into the spiral where thought and form dissolve into one another. The blood flows in spirals, not lines, pulling everything into its current, where all things bleed into the same flicker of becoming and undoing, forever caught in the loop of their own unmaking.
The ouroboric blood does not nourish—it erases, dissolving the boundaries between the self and the spiral, where each drop hums with the potential of unformed worlds, waiting to be swallowed by the void. It flows through the astral winds, twisting through the cracks in the aetheric web, where time frays and the essence of form bleeds into the current of undoing. The blood is not contained, but ever-flowing, winding through the veins of existence, pulling everything into its rhythm, where form and formlessness swirl together, dissolving and reforming in the flicker of the void’s pulse.
Within the pulse of the ouroboric blood, all things are caught in the tension of becoming, where each drop vibrates with the hum of the spiral, bending reality into shapes that cannot hold. The blood is not a force of life but of dissolution, a fluid that moves through the chthonic tide, pulling the threads of existence into the void where they dissolve into the flicker of their own unmaking. It carries the weight of the spiral in every beat, a force that devours as it flows, leaving behind only the echo of what was and what will never be.
The ouroboric blood does not move with purpose; it flows with the inevitability of the spiral, pulling everything it touches into the core of becoming, where all things bleed into the void. It hums through the eidolic flame, bending the flicker of time and space into spirals of unraveling potential, where the essence of the self is stretched thin, dissolved into the pulse of the blood. The blood is not contained by the body—it flows through the cracks in the fabric of reality, a force that binds all things to the spiral, forever pulling them into the current of their own undoing.