It isn’t hunting season but there is no one left to tell us not to take the kill. While your guitar gently wept, my violin had awoken devils the likes of Belial and Sammael. I hold them in my hands though I’ve released my grip on the world to procure such magic. Earth is rolling downhill without Atlas to hold her up… slowly now but give it time… Hell is breaking loose. The waves no longer pound the shoreline but keep your ears high, young Fiver: there’s a fox in the comb. And fair Varona shall become no sleep tonight; but not by any doings of the houses of Montague or Capulet but of something more terrifying than you could ever in your worst nightmares have imagined. The Zeitgeist is dead and God will follow suit and soon there will be nothing left but an unfriendly wind blowing through the last fields of barley and rye. Once in a way, I knew this place as did we all. It wasn’t my entire fault but I shall take the blame, for what does it matter now? Weg. The gallows hang too high and the fair-weather crowd of on-lookers can no longer relish in the expressions of fear and anguish on the faces of the fallen as the rope reaches the end of its slack. Now only the sound of snapping bones can arouse any rush from the peasantry of this class we have selfishly created by digging and cutting until there was nothing left. There is nothing left.
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