I am sorry, Dear Reader, and apologize in advance.

There is a place where blood runs in rivers, tributaries of synapse connections that fuel the fateful flames, lighting fires in distant villages, heating the cold bones of sleeping villagers who are lost and never awaken.

(And I must describe it to you now, because—like the wind that blows through a fat bloated forest—there will come a Fall when the snow rapts itself around your throat, stilling the day that has shortened until it no longer occurs—and that, my Friend, would be a loss greater than God's missing Manual—the thing that holds secrets, answers, maps, and Reasons for Existing —the Operational Directions to a messy mistake of a universe.)

These villages, though doomed—unseen—obscure—should not be seen, they are illuminated in the relentless logos of my spleen's dark daydreams—and it is for this Reason that they are valuable and tend to stir the somnambulistic crowds toward a revolution of disgust and mistrust, the two Pillars of Honesty that are buried beneath the long sands of a sick Civilization which has only fossils for meals.

They are unsightly, to be sure, but because of that, They must be seen, lapped up, licked, ladled, loved—and most of all: Consumed. (They taste like blood, but that is better to salt the soul, similar to the taste of tears that often escape our dim perceptions. Flavorful. Fulfilling. Finality. Foreseen.)

It is your sad obligation to see it through, to taste these distasteful realities, for the Truth is always choking oxygen from the fish-like Men who refuse to listen while swimming in unknown Seas of Displeasure.

Someday, they may emerge—dripping from the mother's dark placental fissures—draining their confidence in sad drops toward an eternal beach that resembles atomic particles with no discernible boundaries—and then, in a miraculous move that heralds a dawn not seen since Adam was evicted from the Garden of Unknowing—they will sprout temporary legs, find their fanciful hands (which will later be used primarily for masturbation and murder on a gigantic scale), wave them around like deaf beggars suddenly perceiving the existence of a Heavenly Cosmic Aria, speaking in tongues which can hopefully grasp a few fertile breasts, white marble dissolving on the shores of an encompassing Sleep.

(This is Our Organ: tune it with your heart.)

She is the silent soprano—with no sails to speak of—but we must hear Her Flight—for one glance outside (through the window of one's fears) confirms a soft impression of wings in the snow: this will be the map of our future fortunes, a guide to the streets of those radiant villages, a stark resolution that graveyards are only for the dead. (Stay away, you Living!)