A Work In Progress, any notes apreciated

Volumus, Et Quid Volumus, Erimus
We must have lived in a past life together.
I could feel it in the essence of my being just peeling my soul inside out.
She never spoke too much. Always simply and just enough to get a point across. And a great listener with a huge heart. She would say things like “always” and other things that would comfort me in hard times. She knew how to love a person. In dreams she’d appear in the form of an angel with wings to heal and transmit the ethereal and celestial knowledge everyone needs.
Reviewing magical texts, we were in a store searching for a particular book. It was said to be written in Latin and authored by an ancient magician. She found it amongst the shelves then pulled it down and handed it to me.
“Here it is.” She spoke.
It was a leather bound. It fit into my hands like nothing else. The cover seemed to stare back at me. The intricate inlay left me marveling…I opened the book and whirling images in black white adorned with designs of skillful mastery filled my dilated eyes. Closing the book I went to the register for the purchase.
Reading the book I realized it was not of this world. It was some sort of daemonic force to destroy us and tear us apart. I could feel time and space as I read, all vibrating, peeling, pulling and stretching. It occurred to me for some reason that I might lose her forever. All my love to be lost to a hell bound force greater than any power of man or woman or both. Barbed chains for the soul, a pantheistic evil capable of destroying any and all good.
An eerie emptiness lit up on the dreary mount as we walked out in unsolved silence.
Then she was gone and I was alone.
I stood upon a giant plasma TV screen with the eldritch face of an evil man shouting in muted and drowned silence, the fervor of his hate could be heard only by deaf ears and felt by broken hearts. Radiating that sore emptiness of dread one sometimes feels in their chest.
I’d passed through a portal.
I jumped from the distortion of reality and all the universe’s gravity pulled me to the de ja vu of another plasma screen. The weight of the jump left it static and cracking in popping electricity. The sky full of lightning and with a subtle rain picking up, I peered off the edge into the infinite darkness and jumped into sure doom.
I jumped from static plasma screen television to static plasma screened television in dead space and cracking thunder.
The light so disappearing and the stasis of black-white getting emptier and emptier.
I arrived in the pit of hell then from the nothingness of black and grey to flashing and audible blood red, my vision all swollen and vibrant like a beating heart.
Then all vaporized into a blood bath in the bricks of writhing maggots and twitching dead flies.
As far from the heaven I’d dreamt with my winged lover as I could ever be.
The strangely familiar faces in hell reverberating their dissonance and distance, shuffling back and forth and staring silent into the darkness with catatonic leers of psychoses and anguish, they seemed to resolutely embrace.
I closed me eyes in slow motion and I prayed down there in the bottomless pit of this hell.
The darkness spun out geometrically to white and I passed through limbo.
A portal from the hell opened to an enigmatic pseudo heaven. It was the heaven of my dreams sky blue sky no clouds just wooden planks supporting me, but I knew it was not the real. It was all just an illusion of the nightmare. There was a dread and a fear in this heaven, and the feeling of overwhelming repressed hatred and negative energy. Behind all the sky blue sky I could still feel the slowing red vibrations of the pits of hell.
Just floating in the thin air the wooden planks were unstable, I jumped from one to another floating on sky in search of the woman of my dreams.
I found her in a grey room.
She was huddled reclusively in the corner. But it was not really her, a doppelganger or a physical clone genetically contracted from their building.
The personage stood up wearing black plants and a white blouse holding the book out at her side. In residual hesitation, fear and deliberate melancholy we stared at one another and for a moment nothing made sense in the confusion of humanity.
She reached out an empty hand and sent me back to the pits of hell on my knees with yellow and black bile melancholy and insectoid tentacle monsters.
But this time the woman of my dreams was present there too, all beautiful in her unique pain, wearing a blood red t shirt with spilled black ink, words spilt in spelled epic. The desperation in her face tore me apart, both knowing we could do nothing to change this situation.
Everything all drugged by the demon staring intently at us in the distance, so chained to this tragic destiny.
My vision fell blood shot as she threw down her hands, her eyes filled with loss.
Feeling there was nothing we could do.
Approaching her slowly through a dying wind in a possessed foreign manner I spoke to her softly autonomously in a possessed dead language: “Volumus, et quid volumus erimus.”
My skin turned grey and callous and I collapsed before her dead.
She knelt down and mourned over my dead grey corpse.
Blood red.