The one word she whispered in the warm heart of time became his heart. A thousand generations are a thousand autumn leaves. It was the word of red clouds, red sand and terracotta, of carnage and desire, of stone saints, of the divinity that swims around the mountain of transcendence, the blood orange twilight of futility. Nine tenths of what once was is no more, if it ever was. And thus, the books whispered at night, having bled away their ink to become blank and restless. Our lips were the scars from which the blood runs fresh and sure, lost to the ceaseless emptiness of an obsolete word. The blood orange of the violence of time.