quae decollarus ad somnium…
What is it if it’s not for the few, the genuine, the genius, the mis-employed, the forlorn talents waiting in patience for the day to come, for the misinformed, hollow, brainwashed, tasteless, consumptive, over-appreciated, over-paid and narcissistic masses of sheep to notice them…
We are the silent masters, we watch them fail and slowly fall as we laugh in secrecy, we know it isn’t but a waste of time, for when the time shall come they all shall kneel on their digitally-crippled knees asking for the magical recipe for fire… And then, my brothers, we shall rise to burn again, from our ashes, from the spider webs covering our wings, from the rotten thoughts and slimy dribble dripping off their stagnant minds… The Phoenix is not a myth, the Phoenix is not a dream, the Phoenix is not a lie, the Phoenix is not dead; I’ve seen it with my own blind eyes, but the mirror shattered for it could not withstand the heat…
H.Q.
IV:XIV a.m.
dies martis, ante diem II Nonas Ianuarius, anno MMDCCLXV a.U.c