Sometimes I wonder whether the angels sing the devil to sleep. Does he sleep at all? Annihilation needs to be sustained, somehow.
I wonder if he uses the magnitude of his own sins as a compass. Bottled poison on standby, just in case.
I think he has red hair, a reflection of what Hell is supposed to look like, against the contours of his red skin.
I used to picture his house, question whether or not he owned books, whether he was familiar with Fitzgerald and Plath.
I realised that he lives inside us all, in our veins, in our own minds.
We submit to the devil in our movements; our radiance belongs to him.
We are Satan.