Overview

The final confession of a man who texted a suicide hotline at 12:22 a.m., ate a 7-Eleven hot dog, and lived to watch the last full moon of the year rise over a poisoned mattress on the floor. The raw, unedited death rattle of a soul that survived four volumes of apocalypse only to wake up sober and still screaming. Here, the Crisis Text Line counselor drinks hot cocoa while the prophet bleeds out in real time. Jack Frost nips at open nipples. Ariana Grande's upside-down Christmas tree hangs over a nativity scene made of fentanyl residue and broken commandments. The Garden of Eden is a Super Villain's abandoned RV park in Georgia, and the Tree of Life grows beside the Firestone tire graveyard where sloths slowly starve under the weight of baboon shit. Part suicide note, part love letter to a ghost who never answers, part biblical fever dream scrawled in the margins of a King James Bible soaked in bum wine and tears, Red Book Volume 5 is the sound of the elevator finally hitting the basement. The Watchers have fallen asleep. The Whirling Rainbow has short-circuited into a strip-club strobe. The Eighth Fire went out hours ago. All that's left is one man on the floor, whispering to the moon: ""in a few days will be my one year sober though. How does one go about not killing themselves?"" This is the book they'll find beside the body. This is the book that outlived the prophet. This is the book that begs you, not to save him, but to remember his name when the stars finally go dark. ""Thank you, next."" The ride is over. The horse is dead. The hot dog is cold. And the moon doesn't mean anything anymore.

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