My prophecy is a nightmare. My path is a like a hedge of thorns. On to the burning wastes. On to the great rift. To harvest the bitter fruit and drink from the barren springs. My land is roamed by worms. My teeth is gnashing. A shrine of flesh that had risen. A mind that sparked above the stars. Scorched in the consuming fire in the forges of the nether god. Towards the noumenon. Deprived of both a body and the mind that animates it, the soul is petrified in a monstrous satori. It is hermeticism of the abyss that has trampled it into a blunt instrument of enlightenment. Towards the noumenon. Towards apocalypse. A lifetime of unquenchable thirst and ravenous hunger has carved out an devouring automata. Destroyed by the bitterness of its grievous and long-protracted punishment. My cup runneth dry. My house is divided. On to the burning wastes. On to the great rift. A vast network of fractures. The forecourts of Sheol. The night is as a garment. The face has been obscured. Apex prelest. Conscious nothing. Axis damni. Embers of pneuma. Disunity. Estrangement. The cruelty of the other death.
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