Better to have an obscure life, hidden like the gnosis we sought. Better to have the art of priests and behold the writing spider, family of writing, the highest ether and pitiful Earth below.
I believe she is a daimon, yes, a variant, a hybrid, an influx of code into your memory and slowly malfunctioning mainframe. It cannot be cleansed, there is no cure, contain and quarantine, remember she never sleeps and stalks the outer wilderness for prey forever, behold a temporary bond and quarantine, her whisper alone glow afire, wicked, warm and wild, may the stars expire. I adjure you, potent daimon of the dead to brand her heart, leave it to melt and suck out her blood because of love.
Best of luck to you, may all of your slender canals lead to warm beaches, may your freshly dug war trenches be filled with perfect red clay, may your pristine breeze blow just for you, may the daylight and darkness lacquer your face in sacred silence, keep you safe, allelujah brother, identical sister, father, mother, friends and the unknown readers, our cats, our horses and fox in her burrow, the skunk that lives along the property and estate, the wild rabbits, messengers of the underworld, the wren on a twig, our hummingbirds who love the climbing roses that attach playfully on our barn near the stables, near the home of our majestic Arabian, doll-black eyes, call her Jinny, she loves to gallop and prance, silken and clouded-gray like the long-lost Baltic waves of centuries ago, an elegant grace, may your life be as beautiful.