Pried open doors, choir songs of fingerdust resurrecting goldrush, and a pretty little cromulent called whitewash.
New century martyrs have risen up to burn books, and quotes, and tongues, and every contrariwise thought, --is this intuition or inquisition?
What ascends is trapped within tenebrific clouds, returning to barren ground when it rains unholy prayers.
They don't crusade for you or me. They contest for dominion and mastery. Those who believe are mooncalf.
This torchlight of intolerance sends out skyrockets, and away it goes! trending on your homepage:
Past generations burning at the stake, at the hands of sinners clothed as saints, in cathedral oblivion, dismembering their future in the blood of their own children.