These are some Tumblr-hosted writings of "Genevé Confavreux" or "Genevé Castella der Berlens", of Genevé (and sometimes Zurich), Suisse, who went by the symmetrical and auspicious handle of 'genevacovnentions'.

On the cost of living:

Paid 16 euros for a cheesecake while taking out the butch girlfriend for a date

I could sculpt a mountain of those cheesecakes with my hereditary wealth

And yet

I have never wanted to cook manually more because that's too much for a fucking pastry made out of chemically reactive milk fuck Switzerland fuck the income bracket

— genevaconventions, 2015

On Germanic culture, adjacent to and bleeding into that of the Swiss:

"The Germanic peoples exist in a mutual feedback loop of inedible cuisine and failed Eurovision entries"

— genevaconventions, 2013

(Ten minutes pass after this posting.)

"German meal: half moldy whole bread loaf from windowsill, entire fish head, Eurodance rendition of 99 Lüftballoons, entire stick of butter. German birthday cake: Basic chocolate cake with list of compulsory taxes shoddily written in frosting in microscopic smeary typeface"

— genevaconventions, 2013

(Addendum made with the knowledge that the spiritual poverty and the state of being forgotten by God are shared by two unfavorable European "cultures":)

English meal: Practicing breatharianism whilst engaging in unverbose self-deprecatory Protestant contemplation. English banquet: Group starvation

— genevaconventions, 2013

(Clarification made with the knowledge that these practices are a real form of asceticism, and as we know the Prophet Muhammad said everything in moderation, and thus the self-punitive nature of the Protestants is a forceful and pathetic way to make God remember:)

"Genevé did you have any personal scuffles with any anchorites"

Personal scuffles with the entire concept of being born English

— genevaconventions, 2013

These are some "European nationalist" derisive opinions on the Germans, the English and the Swiss. These require no commentary.

This is the author's autobiography, where the pattern continues:

"My posts are not prosecutable during peacetime | She/her/the mastermind | Purebred feudal lord; real estate agents DNI | I explicitly endorse everything I reblog | If you're German unfollow"

Beyond this point is the author's commentary.

**

I

Don't like genevaconventions? Place computer in bathtub and engage tap. This will clean genevaconventions out of your machine. Do not turn off your computer while doing this

— genevaconventions, 2013

Several videos were inboxed as a result of this posting of laptops with half-broken screens and immediately post-Bubble "never obsolete" eMachines somehow bearing the graphical weight of HTML5 being drowned alive. The best of them all was the martyred (at the time) top of the line gaming laptop with the scarcely advertised HDMI input feature that felt a shred of Renaissance-era female subject misery. It ceased to resume not functioning as a portable monitor/television for the nihil of gaming consoles the sender had in their house, and it died before it could truly be born.

II

Girl who has read the myth of Narcissus and took away from it that vanity is bad (foolish, philistine): There are more things to life than wealth. Me, Photoshopping the sickest fucking twin braids you have ever seen onto Suleiman the Magnificent and clipping masking a gold texture onto them, then warp tooling the chest area to give him boobs: I hear you madame

— genevaconventions, 2014

This is one of the more well-known genevaconventions postings, seeming to prefigure a current fashion of dadaist non-argumentative strawman comedy where the subversion of expectations is the primary aim. The literal action described in the latter half, concerning the author-exaggeration, was replicated to the best of her ability by one "Julia" (Samain Mauer), who had the serendipitous handle 'doorbell' claimed. She wanted to tell you that she was very tired of being met with the immediate response-to-a-response 'Can I ring you?' or 'Who's there?' or '[looks through keyhole]' whenever she was sighted replying to a post. She reblogged the original posting containing the hypothetical with her replication, and the response of myself was "Happy the holy month of Ramadan". We struck up a friendship under these assumed names and soon discovered we were next door neighbors, although she did not learn my name until later. My face appears to be rather forgettable. The only two parts of my appearance that stay in memory are eyes and hair. Sunglasses and a wig, and I am a thief in the night. She knew myself for some time as the ginger with a hundred identical pairs of sunglasses and a grave rasp.

That all changed when I blew up that orphanage. Quid pro quo is taken to mean 'service for service', 'eye for an eye', but it means 'nothing for nothing'. Within a disastrous Swiss orphanage known in past centuries for atrocities against demonkind there was Maud-Mauve Mauer, the younger sister of Samain Mauer. This building was rededicated sometime in the late twentieth century and boasts an exterior engraved plate thanking the Navashino family for securing the future of the children of the mountain, although this was a calling in of some favors from one daemonophobe to another. The Swiss localization of Bureau Hotel is a Navashino front, and the Navashinos a chauvinist sewer. Unintimidatingly two-meter tall men agnostically made maggots in a torporsome cave of shit where bipedal excrement becomes nonpedal excrement, the family's primary past time a gathering of cousins for rigged gladiatorial tournaments, and their religiosity only non-pagan and Christian in its nontolerance when Saturn is involved. Maud-Mauve Mauer is the first to react to my intrusion, and the first to help me enforce Magdolna's Law. Winding staircases, and magical silencers, and cheesed high altitude false Baphomets. She remains highly nonchalant about questions of administrative character like "Who takes the most locks off the dormitory doors?" and "Who, should you be granted the opportunity, would you put in a meat grinder right away?" and "Who is just a slight hindrance in letting a single centimeter of living grass grow on the lawn?". This is nothing for nothing because this is the four-walled pathos of the living dead served a proper memento mori, made unable to use the living as vessels for demented thought. The dead decide no curfews, the living dead still use the word 'bedtime' and ring a bell in the halls chanting 'lights out, lights out, lights out'.

To gather cheerleaders for blazes, to plant a depot of time bombs in the closet, to rip off the plate and first throw it into the valley to become a urinal for the ur-Baphomet, to think better and smelt it into bullets, to contact all living relatives and find that one of them is your next door neighbor and you have to tell her 'can you keep a secret?' as you come to her door with her sister, rip off the wig, hook flash the sunglasses, leave one self waiting and greet another, and to find one of your closest friends was thrown out of a window at five minutes of age in the microstate of Luxembourg on another Earth entirely, and to introduce her to her sister, who has asked no questions this whole time but 'Is every one of them a skeleton yet?'.

III

"Genevé why are you posting at 4AM"

I do not mind it when you huff your own toxic nutsack fumes on my porch so why should you mind the beautiful flight of my thought?

Hypocritical

— genevaconventions, 2015

(Revision with eight years between postings:)

White Rihanna @ariarnaud

I post exclusively at 5 a.m. and 5 P.M. as those are outside of the toxic nutsack fume huffing grace period

Hope this finds you well

5:01AM • Twitter for Outdoor delicious fungus grill

Some ideas deserve continuations.

IV

Satan's asscrack is played out

Spread the Archangel Gabriel's asscheeks

— genevaconventions, 2015

Written while getting cherry-topped chocolate-glazed vanilla parfaits with Samain Mauer prior to the inevitable identification. We made the mistake of doubling down on saccharine dehydration by chasing it with milkshakes. This functionally equates it to getting drunk, as it is the sucrose that birthed the problem that even more of it, as in hair of the dog, was meant to solve.

V

Your mother Albina is three Roman stadia across

— genevaconventions, 2013

(Cross-platform iterative)

The Large Bitch Collider @realresjino

Heard your mom spans three hundred biblical cubits in length check back for measurements in feet whenever my team of archaeologists figures it out

3/17/15 • Twitter for Dove Carrying Olive Leaf

If judging by how many times Darling screenshot my postings, you'd swear we had our state wedding eight to nine years earlier, and I did not lose my virginity to her just a month prior. Pre-metamorphosis via staged suicide, the cocoon of the Genuine Genevé made small sounds from within the gooey padded insides about a certain 'butch girlfriend'. This could have been Samain Mauer, but it was Darling. She liked my verbiage so much she drank my blood.

Not exactly.

Three in the morning, fourth month, two-thousandth fifteenth year, age eighteen. A Saturday, Rhode Island, new Res apartment. Darling dreamt about nothing, and leapt rudely into consciousness. This was nothing unusual - her battle readiness is total, having to arise sometimes even earlier on barely four hours of sleep to attend to her irrelevant dour vampire hunting exercises, seeing again the bloated incestuous stump of a man with severed hindlegs, the riddle the Sphinx feared to think of, spewing black bile that spelled out 'I AM YOUR GRANDFATHER' on the floor.

Should myself grant Goni this much poetic license?

She hungers. I am not asleep, myself is roused by the slightest disturbance, and nothing is crueler than choosing to focus on reliving every single horrible moment of my life in unconscious while the right of my beautiful Darling to rest becomes transiently violable. When she flinches at night, it is the greatest tragedy of that century. Her stomach emptied, a problem, dearly so. Should she cave? She caves. It is decided a small meal is in order, breakfast at witching hour with nothing to leave out for ghouls. Cells of cartons of eggs misophonic and misosensory as ever, low art molded pulp papier-mâché (the only thing ever worth denigrating as 'outsider art', she thinks, and then ceases to think that, and wonders why she thought that), pan sizzle - ars antiqua. Concrete monophony. To abstract it, put your face in the pan and hear overtones and harmonics and have charred flesh aspire for reddish and black undertones as well. You were, in your beautiful chordal perceptive reverie, the Frenchman's magnetophone, and you are in the ICU with third degree burns. Sausage in island-birthing magmatic water, baptismal. Toast in the fucking toaster.

Is it Standard American for one? No, it is Standard American for two, and before all this futurist multidisciplinary clatter, metallurgical, sculptural and found sound, vox progressuum, tongues of stove burner techno-Pentacostal, she consults the Quran. She knows I am awake, but she doesn't know I can't get bedsores, but she knows that I know that it is the wish of herself for myself to remain immobile until she can bring breakfast in bed, or actually she does not at all have the foresight and is convinced I am still asleep, which is the truth of the matter at hand. She thinks I look so peaceful, I think I look static. She thinks, plainspoken: it already feels wrong to her to cook for one, even now. Intra-religious demagoguery follows. It is in her religion to practice non-adherence to any religion. Why does she then put down two portions of chicken sausage to collect insurance money from the burning of a pink opaque vermic estate? She thinks, guilty: I should wean myself off pork. I told her she doesn't have to, and perhaps we should have two separate meat products in our respective standardized breakfasts, but she cooks guided by flashlight, almost spelunking in her own kitchen, knowing I am sensitive to even the light of a depressed firefly, and should she put the light on, through the crack of the creaking bedroom door light will spill and my eyelids will also creak and I will be roused. Naturally, as a result of this, she can't discriminate between things of pork and things of chicken, because the flashlight must be pointed at the culinary implements to make sure they do not scorch the Earth before Napoleon, and labels in this dark are illegible, and she has already doubled down on the choice of chicken sausage, so why premeditate anything post ex facto? Oh God, she thinks, I didn't even consider how loud the toaster'll ding. Res Jino is so dumb that if she pays slightly too much attention to the labels on plastic film that houses sausage the calendar will flip back to the Julian for a moment and whence upon return to the Georgian Ash Wednesday will land on a Saturday in April, also spake Res Jino.

Except she doesn't consult the Quran, as she thinks even the thumbing of pages could disturb me. She thinks: Ari's a very light sleeper, isn't she? But also isn't it a moral good to wake her up? All night she is tormented by nightmares where she relives all of her life's misgivings. She told me if I wake up to slap her awake as well. Then, to herself, "have some trust", Res says, in the subterranean cradle of a civilization for two. And she avoids thinking about the sausages with any deliberation, as she pulls out any ingredients at hand, and is blessed by her prior self for feeling like chicken the day she went for groceries. Jino religion is adhered to, the concern that overrode whether to rouse myself from the seeing of my continuous past life - the meal is made imbued with all the faith a kamikaze felt for Showa, a complete suicide maneuver of taking whatever is available, otherwise termed 'resourcefulness' in the Ten Mandates of Being of Res Jino, and serving it to your future wife. She really wants to do this, to surprise me with breakfast in bed, the first sight of the unprovoked day something pleasant, and something warm, and something cute, and something made just for me. I told her one time: Have some ego. It is the moral obligation of yourself as the spouse of myself to desire. What is chauvinistic and drinks blood and is all desire?

The toaster dings. The bar chart gain visualizer of a stereo volleyed in the snake God's mouth around backstreets made living with phallic "magickal" sigil graffiti is nascently prismatic. Res Jino, inattentive for the span of palimpsest seconds, slides through the anticlimactic crack of a hall to the crack of the bedroom door; checks to see if even a hair on my polarized leftside body has innocently twitched; nothing. Oh good, she thinks, she's still asleep. Returning to the kitchen, turning every dial to black snow, the meal is considered complete. The toaster dings again because the bread is merely a side, and a side is not forgiven for not having been born the minute it is served. Cliched crows outside of the window of the third floor domestic idyll apartment's kitchen perched on spring night branches do not dare call, and if there were an attic, there would be bats. She would be proud of making this just for herself, but she feels particularly proud having made it for two, because my Ari wouldn't eat my instant noodles, which aren't even really mine, neither is the teapot, nor is the water, she thinks, and I must add I would, and myself would pretend with pleasure she synthesized water on this planet for the first time, and manufactured the teapot, and molded the dough of the noodles, and farmed the vegetables, and ground the seasoning.

And it is not even true that she made two meals at once. First she ate alone in the kitchen by herself, waving at the crows, look at me, I did something to be proud of. Crow responds: 'you're wildly miscast in this gothic pastiche.' Res Jino replies: 'what the hell do you know about that? you're not even a raven.' The crow replies: 'I am, you're just a bad ornithologist.' But it is with the first ding of the toaster, the side made for herself, that she checked through the crack of the door to see if I remain unchanged. It then echoes in Res Jino's head what I said, have some desire. It turns to three-thirty Ante Meridian by the time she makes the mousetrap of the second meal, a beckoning magnetic field, The Great Attractor for the wild animal with myriad-brained appendages that eats skinned industrial product and stolen offspring, something Ari Augustenburg cannot resist, Res Jino thinks.

Consequently, it is also the fabrication of myself that I was awake this entire time. Inevitably, the realization struck myself that I should afford her what she desires, that for once I should be one step behind. Many miniature actions were initiated and then aborted, and I am not so deaf to intent that I couldn't pick out just how vulnerable she wants me to be. Inevitably, in the ravine of sleep, I was again separated from my family, and put in that castle, thinking every thought I had in that moment, and it was one thought regarding Mother: 'Coward.' Res Jino breaks through a wall in the ravine of sleep with a saving throw, a single set of breakfast in bed with a single intended recipient, who is now not even aware of having been made the addressee. Wrong. Also a lie. This is the good part, ladies and second row of ladies also. First it is put on the nightstand, then Res Jino climbs into bed, bending down on her knees to nudge, slight squishes of the cheek, the thumbing of the scholar of the Holiest Book and not the book. Eyelids twitch not. Hair twitches not. Crow calls not. Unknowingly, some dial also turned the yawns of Ari Augustenburg to black snow. I return to the undrowned as a very annoyed mermaid. I am attentive. She braces herself for the impending bite of her hand, the vacant stare of sheer threat. Nothing of the sort, her touch is familiar and slowly lifts me out of the ravine, a thousand mile rope climbed out of an all-altitude well of debris. Forks do not yet clang.

Myself turns my head right, and trains my sights on what all ado was employed to do. Darling takes me in her grasp, and lifts my chin to not face away from her. I am staring at her i na fashion that I hope expresses "You cannot be serious." I whisper: "I'm okay with whatever it is you're about to do." She appears embarrassed, and we, in the spirit of good sportswomanship, strike that from the record. Regaining her composure, having let go of my chin slightly, but with myself having affixed my head at the precise angle that the temporarily loosened fingers of the audacious hand would demand. Let's play dumb. Let's accept this predicament and work from the assumption that she just wants my head there, so she can have two layers of feedback from the movements of my mouth and the rest of my face as I hold up the plate and eat. I reach for the fork. I wait for her to release her grip temporarily and fetch the plate. This is the projected course of events in the performance taking place at present, and it is of course a false trajectory. She indeed releases her grip, only to deprive me of the three-pronged, tridont (three-toothed, although it could be a trident also) implement with which I could so easily crochet her rib cage to assume the spiky consistency of a wheat field.

There are only three words that are spoken. "You can eat." Sausage is pierced and on fork in one hand, and prompts the mouth of myself open, to bite it. She lets me have small rings of failed organics before pulling away. These are the vermic (shape, worm-like) estates, vacant fields populated by pipelines, the oil industry's answer to candy cigarettes. Having realized that the separate eggs and toast arrangement would not work in this scenario, for the second meal, the one that was wrought out of the ether for this night alone, she made eggs on toast. Here I am allowed everything all of the time. That is patently untrue. I am allowed fang-mark sectors of bread and yolk the geometry of which could be charitably termed 'expressionistic'. Lightly raised flat planes melt placenta forever. Res Jino is thinking: I can't believe she's playing along. Myself is thinking: this is a little too measured to be the entire extent of this Res Jino special. Have some desire are the words her head throbs with, have some desire are the words encoded onto snatches of saliva stuck on her finger as she intrudes upon my monstrosity with her own conventional appendages between the acts of implanted geography, every culinary region a puzzle piece of the views of the vermic pipelines and the flat bed of hot coals suspended in the air which flickers red to encrust the orphaned.

In precisely 20 intervals, Darling being perhaps a little too generous, the snake God exterior to the cover of romance with its forked tongue turns the dial to black snow also on 'the physical presence of Res Jino's mediocre but lovingly made early morning breakfast, the heartfelt nature of which negates objective assessment'. I lied again: she waited to make and eat her own second set of 3AM breakfast, which is on a slow to cool but frost verge-positioned plate on the nightstand next to the now set down decimated contents of my share, which will languish in the sink for sometime after she goes back to bed. Res Jino did not gain confidence from making something for herself, Res Jino gained confidence in making something with a horrible purple light leak clouding her thoughts. Using the same fork coated now in proof of myself having lived, bent over from bed to nightstand, ass to my sides, she quickly disposes of her own share. "You know, you can take your time." I insist with no insistence. This embarrasses her as well, and it is struck from the record. Water, inviting ammonia, bleach and chlorine. There is something Darling is not telling me, and it what was gathering, with unpredictable concavity, in the innards of her pants at the time of her feeding me, a fourth derivative. Ammonia and bleach mixed together produce a proto-mustard gas highly effective for bioterrorism. Human semen suggests the two components separated. A horrible purple light leak in a darkened room is real blood on the sleeve, the blood suggests, post ex facto, the interruption of the innocent thought of breakfast in bed, but perhaps the very intention of making breakfast in bed can be attributed, also post ex facto, to the wish for the American continent's people to bathe in Tyrian drains. The last quotable raven in Rhode Island has moved from the kitchen windowside branch to the bedroom windowside branch of another tree. The raven speaks: you now have a gothic creature in your midst, but what you're doing is still much too fluffy for the time of day. Res Jino answers: hey, fuck you, buddy, I'll show you some real witching hour shit, just you wait. I extrapolate this conversation from nothing. When in vampire Rome as a non-vampire, do as a vampire would want you to and offer yourself up as a nourishing agent, a saying which myself is negatively expectant as to the impending common use of. A Gnostic syncretic Dionysian mystery would take the sacramental wine and vinic ecstacy and, extrapolating from two unrelated data points more than my recording of a bird having spoken, conclude that the Dionysian Mystics drunk blood all along in anticipation of Abraham.

Enough of that.

"My blood will nourish you more than anything I just gave you. Why not have a taste, dearest?", says Darling. Let the record state that I deeply love her neck, it is the deepest pleasure for myself to plant a flag in her epidermis, to send the lifeblood of her jugular swimming like spawning salmon upstream. Res Jino is swimming in something else, Gemini progenitors of blisters and pulmonary edema. "Are you sure?" I ask. This embarrasses her, and you know what the protocol is regarding the boom mics of consent and clarity cropped from frame. We both nod, and she attempts to play dominant. Her authoritarian grin makes me want to mock it. It lacks in isolationism. Her meager parody of jingoism and riling of the petit bourgeois to see themselves not as pudgy aging porous shopkeepers but the ubermensch. Her darting eyes, seeking my confirmation at a pace of one confidence slip per second. Who's the worst person in the world? You are, Darling. Who finally caused the fall of obsolete civilization? You did, Darling. Who's a supervillain in all classical and modernist senses? You, Darling. Who invented the suicide seed? You, Darling. Who built so many dams the Earth became 95% ocean? You did, Darling. It's embarrassing. I topple her over, shaking off the first and final seven layers of my clothes like a recently washed dog. I bite into her neck as if I am about to disestablish brain contact from the rest of the body. Who's the god of a cult of personality? You, Darling. Anybody's blood but hers tastes disgusting; I hate everyone but her; iron is sugar and sugar is blood. Ari Augustenburg unbuttons the collar of Res Jino's situationally misplaced shirt while removing fangs exactly as much as would kickstart regeneration, still prickling, shocks of static electricity in Ugarte's basement, thoughts black snow, bodily surface white noise, time a Gaussian curve, salvation a Brownian motion. Is the Pinochet photo under her pillow at this time? Nevermind that. On the second button, she intercepts my hand. And says…

"It brings me so much joy to have a part of me inside you become you, to remain entirely distinct from you yet sustain you every day, to have that part transfigured by some miracle of love, to know that I cannot glean anything that matters from my own blood, but also that you see no shame in it and bask in me, caring for me. I feel cleansed of the old desire, full of new. I may not deserve this to-say-the-least Tyrian shade when I stand alone, but your similar hue makes me feel as if we, together, are the absolute. Ari, I would say I don't know if this means anything to you if I myself didn't know you knew, but you situate me in time and space. What money I do have becomes old money, each day is what's nouveau. Really, the taste of my own blood is revolting to me, but sharing the most intimate exchange of desire with you would be better than anything your hands can do to me."

"…Wait, pardon." I am flushed. I did not plan for this. "You want to drink my blood?"

"Yeah."

Strike that. Excise from the record.

Any astute reader may have zeroed in on gothic pastiche and mentions of vampirism in places where it is not the primary topic. "Right, okay. Now, how shall we proceed about this…" At the time I finally went off my guard for the first and only time. "Oh, I got it." I fumble in my hair for a gun. I am still on top of her. I move slightly upward, no longer a singular overlapping dual geometry of approximately identical height. "Darling, before we proceed, it should be made abundantly clear that this is going to be messy. Very." "The bloodier, the better." "Whatever you say, jackass. Stick your tongue out." I point the gun at my head, and blow my brains out. The blood is all over her face, and dripping down into her mouth, and she spreads her hands in front of her as if she is about to get on all fours, and then flips her palms facing up, for pools of as much content as possible to form.

I lick my own blood. "Tastes like nothing." She licks my blood. She gags. "God, this is disgusting." "Ungrateful." I bite back. I reach within the impact crater of my head, not yet fully sewn, and the last fresh drip finds its third to last resting place on my fingertips, second to last in my mouth, and comes to rest forever in Res Jino's mouth. I enjoy seeing her be undercut by her own ambitions. The unreality of her prurient itch as it is seen in her head and then the reality of her trying with all her might to make it real, for the love that she shares with myself, to simulate death that we know we will never die. Love is the law, and for love Res Jino will surpass her own limitations and lie in a bed where you'd swear an entire halving of the surface was occupied by machine guns; all that escaped from her neck, all that escaped from my head, all that was smeared as she attempted to not lose the essence of myself but felt momentarily afraid, wasting it so that with the next few drops her appreciation will despair and become total.

"Darling, I love you." If anybody saw us, they'd report a double murder-suicide.

Nude covered in blood. Shirted covered in blood. Bedsheeted covered in blood. In lingerie covered in blood. Non-hairless covered in blood. Pillowed covered in blood. Sometime later, Res Jino lay on a pillow purpled, sheets purpled, out of clothes purpled, eyes unpurpled, cheeks purpled, legs purpled, ass purpled, sleeping in the nude so when she showers in the morning rivers of my blood will drain into the water supply and make this world anew. I am not sure how I feel about this messianic gesture. Res Jino will leave trails of blood across her own floor, and the place will smell like ironworks for the following century. Every room will be a room of me. My mouth was a mouth of her, and perhaps my shoulder too. A space to be abandoned will forever be a testament to love for myself. My mouth also will be renewed with dependence on her. I must kill Darling slightly everyday. This time I'll kill her hopes by sleeping on the ceiling, glued, needing no support, running up the wall and anchoring, bat of slime. I have some religious objections to sleeping in a bed of my own waste. It might not be a susine rolling in shit, but it is escaped life made material for the carnal, so some ethical concerns arise. Res however, in her non-adherence to any religion altogether, will tell myself: "You know, I've kind of started to like the taste of your blood after having it trickle into my mouth in my sleep because of the sliding curve of the pillow." And I will tell her: "I hope you're not getting used to it." And Res tells me: "I could." And I told her: "You won't." And she told me: "Damn."

**

ADDENDUM

The original posting covered in III was made immediately after the events described in V's commentary, the hemophagic event itself a quickening whirlwind.