A howling, unfiltered descent into the raw nerve of existence, part suicide note, part prophecy, part love letter written in blood and cigarette ash. This is not a memoir. This is the sound of a soul detonating across 222 pages of fevered scrawl: biblical thunder colliding with bar-room confessions, ancient Anishinaabe fire prophecies braided with Black Sabbath riffs and the last cigarette before the apocalypse. Every line bleeds. Every margin is a crime scene. Here, God is a woman who left. Satan wears satin and smells like strawberry wine. The narrator, a pan-dimensional spirit being, a drunk prophet, a ghost on a stolen bicycle, rides the razor's edge between divine revelation and total collapse, screaming truth into the void while the wheel of torment keeps turning. From the turtle-shaped island of the Seventh Fire to the Mount of Olives splitting in two, from motel rooms where lovers dissolve into static to the poisoned rivers of the Fifth Fire, this book is a live wire: touch it and you'll feel the current of every lost child who ever asked, "Got a light?" Red Book Volume 2 is the sound of the world ending in slow motion, and the terrifying possibility that someone, somewhere, might still be saved. "I am absolutely fucked. And so are you. Let's dance."
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