It doesn't burn.

A grimoire no one can read. Until they can.

A dangerous game that is. Wanting to know everything."

I was only speaking aloud. I was just trying to read this tome, and translation was getting...well, frustrating to say the least.

"Hello? who is that?"

"I think you already know exactly who this is. You just refuse to admit it.

The ghost of a voice is echoing. It isn't coming from anywhere. It's like the words simply form already spoken eons ago. Like He knew what I was going to say from a time unfathomably long ago.

"To answer your question. The reason it's so difficult, is because there is no translation matrix. One simply has to be willing to learn something they will certainly regret."

I can feel He is gone now, and don't bother responding. As I read, I find He was right. A bullet rings out and my body drops to the ground. Hours later I will be found, but the book is in the fireplace. I hope it burns, and that no one may find those words. An order of words one never read and left sane. The words He wrote.

It doesn't burn.