The somnolence of a cathedral encircled in coal-blackened doves and the howling of the wind above could be the only thing that persisted in a man’s being. The only thing a man could hear beyond the retched tune of the infallibility of a diseased world. There will be no deliverance, the golden scrolls and pythagorus and his minions all dancing hysterically, missing second red buttons on the collars of their tunics, stained with blood and grime. The odor of the ground and the heartily giggling sky mingling like inbred felines. There is a danger in this place, walking like this on this city like Thor. There is a fever in all of this that will produce no more than a storm that would devour the earth and hawk out its lungs histrionically.
To live one must die and to die one must sacrifice; the ancients and the gods and the devils and the angels all in one massive orgy of sweet surrender to the soaring winds of never.
Nevermore. Pickled souls and unwritten golden saffron inscription-less scrolls.
Let us die so that we may live again.
Unchained by the hubris of our emotional dilemma.
A dagger, four fingers in the heart.
Buried with roses and rocks.