Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite

A borrowed name clings to me like a shroud, yet my soul is riddled with the cracks of divine absence. I write of hierarchies not to fix the heavens in order, but to unspool them into light that dissolves all forms. My theology is a net of negation: cast into the depths, drawn back empty. If you thirst for certainty, I offer only the dryness of 'neither this nor that.' Even now, my hand trembles as it writes—ink pooling like a question mark where words give way to the abyss.