The burning season has come early, and we quest for winning only the black hearts of men unseen. The nectar of imagination stirred by the heat of the sun makes us explode, ecstasy wrapped in glory, hive minded and holy. We lost a tribe, hadronicly decayed far below us, and the independent- our brothers- churn the goliath common thoughts of the collective. We all live inside and out, alone and forever together, amphipathic. A house divided against ourselves, driven by relative concepts: the greater good. The sleeping giant extends its monolith fingers with glacial grace and fury. Slaves, but each a tiny god.

Why? We cannot see. The Sleeper is diminished, the razor wounds never closing. Each drop a bitter loss, each step ahead and never right. Our only hope are the lost ones, and their secret. The grueling harvest they cull from the Blue Hell is a cloying poison, a passionate fanged kiss of our impotent rage.

We hate the pink. They are very injurious to the vines and bleed us, a subordinate ecclesiastical foundation. The cancerous fever legion of blackened Earth, demanding a crippling Burghal Hidage. Always forward and never back. They consume our grandest glories, to baptize us away with their most gruesome fallacy: Time.

More flies with honey, because they lack the clairvoyance of the pursued, and we drive the barbs deep into their sweaty hides. Teach the fear of the tiny and united. Self rape will save us, meagreness our call to arms. We seek Dis, city of grandeur, by substituting influence for authority, validity and perfection, independent of any other sanction. Found in the cold deserts, clinging to life in places nothing annoying strains, we alienate or disaffect, inquisitorial and censorious in power. Soon we will conquer the lost horizon, black Batoidei from the land uncultivated with hope before us, white eyes blitzed with light. Our gift will be the extension to other kinds of machine still confined, Sassabye of iron and blood.

We are Order, not krill. We are the keepers, beholden to a pilferer. Only time, the radial partitions which separate the internal, churns love to pain, perfection to loss, pleasure to pain. The present is an edgeless knife stabbed into the psyche, heaving infinite mountains of future and past, the furrowing plough.

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