Sleep now, encased in concrete tomb of Malkuthian woe. Hear the lonely howl from centre prism. Salt scorches the Saturnine ground beneath our feet. Consume me whole, oh Black Mother. The Melancholy of Ages - Endless sink of inertia into microbiological worlds of temporal shadow. The Lunar currents will wash away our acute, sharp pain and leave only the static hiss of a gray sky in it's hollow wake.