There is a wooden cabin on a hill It awaits me still. Hate, Loathing, and Pride, sit by the indoor fire. And discuss disgust. Logs of spit and mucus in an ivory stack, therein, breaketh not they for moon or sun. In abyss, engulfed in a blister, of scarlet marsh and murky water. Of poison their cups are filled; midnight blue, the cherubic wine of sorrow. I join once more my dearest friends and gaze into the fire's flat, eternally burned, lithium disk.