There's a crowd of pitch black unicorns at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert. A crowd of pitch black unicorns moving their onyx hooves and horns at the rhythm of drones dressed in electric guitars. An acoustic break follows. The vibrations of the music and dancing cause purple flowers to grow, purple flowers weaned on blood and sticky black tar. There's a crowd of unicorns dancing at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert feeding on ladybirds crisps and dragonflies sticks, that once home will play vinyls on mystic turntables of fire. The purple flowers grow into vines and try to smother the unicorns to prevent them from listening to bloodred-dyed vinyls on mystic turntables of fire. Meanwhile in the corner of a museum S. Teresa of Avila's statue animates by itself, walks to the window and throwing itself crumbles into a thousand of pieces of marble. The seventh seal has not been opened yet but the ninth the eleventh and the seventeenth exploded already, cracked their own wax and started spreading tongues of flames and water to decimate humanity. A woman dressed in a fifteenth century scarlet outfit leads the pitch black unicorns to salvation creating a safe haven for them in Manchester and another one in California. They have in the meantime gone bonkers and started feeding on each other. Equine teeth suddenly grow carnivorous jaws. Nothing is left in the two oasis apart from a puddle of blood and a pavement of corpses. It's 7 a.m. Chelsea has not yet finished her concert and her music blossoms around played by the mystic turntables of fire. That which remaineth is pitch black light and the breath of aeons lingering here and beyond and nowhere.