Having embraced the calamity of advancement and mocked the simplicity of sporadic rodent behaviours, can we now cross into the alternate galaxy where ancient and accepted Scottish rites were birthed in an Ayrshire cottage of culinary festivity?
I am aware that it truly is a matter of taste. But who will officiate amongst us?
Your deep lamentation is acknowledged, amidst this order of ******* symbolism, despite those Northern and Southern hemispheres of demonic expression and convoluted discrepancy.
The percussion is a sign that the offal festival has begun.
Spiritual alchemy is not without its price on this winter night of dank precipitation.
Let us loiter in the depths of depraved chambers as the mist hangs her weary head over diurnal and nocturnal disagreements.
This is my first offering, so we must form a magic circle.
It feels like netherworld to me, on this twenty-fifth day of the first month.