Deep within the infinite manifolds of the Stygian future, the forlorn God conducts a black symphony through time.

Saturn listens, and the cold harmonic beckoning echoes into the past. Do you hear it too?

At the precipice of the genesis of gods, only their would-be murderers weep.

I dream of paradoxes. I yearn for the unfathomable. I chase every glimpse of insanity.
Give me moonlight with all of its bewildering glory. Grant me solace in vertigo.