“In solitude, where we are least alone.”

Lord Byron

"surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what threat is and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more.

who stands alone

destined for failure

burning

incessant pain

reverberating hurt

Burnt Snow

               .:PESTIS PESTIS:.

The tongue is wicked and lashes at the eyes of the blind.

                         -Silver Wing

¹hol·low 

Pronunciation:

\ˈhä-(ˌ)lō\

Function:

noun

Etymology:

Middle English holw, holh, from Old English holh hole, hollow — more at hole

Date:

before 12th century

1: an unfilled space : cavity, hole2: a depressed or low part of a surface ; especially : a small valley or basin

I

I

I

I

I

I

    .                     .    

      parsec     

.                     .

.                            MOONBOUNCE                             .

,

The skies

The sea

Amalgamate

La luna

Destroys

It is 

two

Oscillating frequencies

Sorrow

Of solitude

clear salt

i never

i Die

burning snow

Burnt Snow

111

WE FLY

ILL BITE YOUR FUCKING FACE OFF.

SUCCUMB AND PERISH.

YOU ARE NOTHING.

Potius mori quam foedare

PENTA

GIUDA        BRUTO         CASSIO

Død snø

Profondo Rosso

Sacrifici

1. The Stranger

    -- Tell me, enigmatic man, whom do you love the best?  Your father, or your mother, or your           sister, or your brother?

    -- I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother.

    -- Your friends?

    -- You are using a word whose meaning remains unknown to me to this very day.

    -- Your country?

    -- I do not know under what latitude it lies.

    -- Beauty?

    -- I would love her gladly, goddess and immortal.

    -- Gold?

    -- I hate it as much as you hate God.

    -- Well then!  What do you love, extraordinary stranger?

    -- I love the clouds ... the passing clouds ... over there ... over there ... the marvelous clouds!

    -- Baudelaire

Hate

The desire for the annihilation of an object that is incurable by time.

-Aristotle

Death Prisms

The Journey has begun. 

All of you who stand in our way will feel our Wrath.

We exist to hate.

Your lambs will follow us.

We are the Goat.