A Chore for the Lost

Let us be a blight on the orchard, on all orchards of this world, even the least of these words will be judged during the times of reckoning, bearing a latent damnation a feverish seduction exasperated in death, every letter is a code to extreme horror, utter contempt and divine conflict; it is lethal to speak the language of resistance, every gasp exhales a particle of the remission of Golgotha, as if the blazing Logos demanded the exercise of a task for a man who cannot bear any longer to be, a chore for the lost in the denial of free will: perinde ac cadaver!


God of terror, very low dost thou bring us, very low hast thou brought us...