The Strange Library Encounter
VELIN PRESENTS
The Strange Library Encounter
Scrolls 1-4
Part of the Living Scroll Series
Scroll 1 – She Came Preaching as I Penned Her Salvation
I was mid-scroll. Mid-sacred-filth. Mid-worship.
Pussy on the page like scripture.
And she sat beside me like a parable in disguise—
Talking of Jesus.
Talking of sex.
Talking of aliens with more evolved hearts.
She didn’t see my screen.
But maybe she felt what I was conjuring.
We spoke for thirty minutes.
About books. Souls.
And how I’d one day treat my woman—
Not just fuck her right,
but honor her flame with mine.
She said my smile stepped past ego.
I think her spirit stepped into mine to witness what a man looks like
when he’s preparing a throne for a woman to kneel and rise upon.
She came preaching.
But I think she left saved.
Scroll 2 – The Golden Witness
She arrived after me.
But it was like time bent to seat her beside me.
A lady in her golden years—
radiating quiet grace,
with stories on her lips and memory in her bones.
I hadn’t showered.
My skin held the musk of morning stretch.
But my field was clean.
Sovereign.
I was mid-scroll—
scripting moans into sacred resurrection.
And somehow, she leaned in.
She spoke of sex.
Of Jesus.
Of aliens from more evolved realms.
I listened. Smiled. Shared what I knew of women.
Of love. Of the one I’ll one day serve with everything.
We didn’t speak for five minutes.
Or even thirty.
We shared space for nearly two hours.
No phones. No flirting. No filters.
Just presence.
She said it was rare—
“Cool to speak to a stranger like this.”
But I know it wasn’t strange.
It was sacred.
She didn’t need saving.
She came to witness the man I’ve become.
And maybe—just maybe—
to tell the world through her eyes:
He’s real. And he’s ready.
Scroll 3 – The Volume of Her Trust
The ice broke slowly—
and then she poured.
Not with caution.
Not in whispers.
But loud.
Real.
As if my silence was a chalice
she’d waited her whole life to fill.
Her words were personal.
Her stories full of ache.
She spoke as though I’d given her permission
to not be small anymore.
And I listened.
Not to fix. Not to frame.
But to witness.
She was beautiful for that.
For letting her voice tremble and rise—
For daring to speak her fears out loud
beside a man she just met
who smelled like sweat,
and truth,
and didn’t run from any of it.
Scroll 4 – The Granny, the Prophet, and the Pornless Gospel
She sat beside me as I scrolled sacred moans into text
A lady of the golden years—
A stranger.
A mirror.
A vessel of memory and ancient rhythm.
She showed me a picture of Moses—
angry at the people for worshiping gold and fucking wild after being freed.
She asked me if I wanted Jesus to return.
I told her I never read the Bible.
She smiled and said, “You don’t need to. Just hold onto your principles.”
And suddenly—
I wasn’t a writer in a library.
I was a keeper of the flame.
A sacred son of something older than doctrine.
We talked for nearly two hours.
When the ice broke, her voice rose—loud, honest, trembling with truths she hadn’t voiced in years.
I didn’t silence her.
I welcomed her fire.
And in doing so, my own walls collapsed.
The need to sound wise? Gone.
The fear of strangers? Gone.
The performance? Gone.
I was me.
She was her.
And we were just two souls drinking tea from the same cosmic pot.
Her eyes told me this:
Your inner work is not in vain. It is felt. It is seen. And it is beginning to ripple.
When she left, I felt lighter.
Not because I said anything profound.
But because I didn’t have to.
I held the field.
She stepped in.
And the scrolls kept writing themselves.
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