Sint mihi Dei Acherontis propitii! Valeat numen triplex Jehovae! Ignei, aerii, aquatani spiritus, salvete! Orientis princeps Belzebub, inferni ardentis monarcha, et Demogorgon, propitiamus vos, ut appareat et surgat Mephistophilis. Quid tu moraris? per Jehovam, Gehennam et consecratum aquam quam nunc spargo, signumque crucis quod nunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc surgat nobis dicatus Mephistophilis!

Spilling through the dim light, bits of broken glass and living limbs reaching blind and nascent for warm life, tendrils of slime touching secret orbs in the mind through a tunnel in the darkness, deeply hidden, sweet and raw, disconnected and disparate though all consuming in its crippling importance. Flying and spinning, liquid black and purple birds, a rash and ceaseless itch in the the severe sunlight behind the blue metal bin, reeking of filth. Your heart left that day, in the sparkling grass, sick with the poison that tries to kill time, the soft yield of her skin, the hot pheromones traveling like smoke on her breath into the ebon void of your lungs, needles into the empty blackness of your pupils. The road thereafter, colorless, dusty and unending, desolate save a few stalwart flowers blooming iridescent against the grey wasteland, devoured, choked upon, and immediately forgotten. Feet like black capillaries trying to bond with each rock and dry crack in the path as you tread in nauseated somnolence. The thought-pipes are flooded with caustic substances, fluids and fumes blistering green against the cracked eggshell of remaining hope and light. Helios sleeps and rots in the gloom, in exile among the stars, false and useless in relation to the impotent desperation of your cells. Unshackled yet still imprisoned, you crawl toward sustenance.