Hymnsofbloodyghostlynightintheshadowsofthesickdeathreaperofblacknessandchaos

In that wet, sweating barn— a barn that exists simultaneously in thirteen contradictory realities— woodlice seep from a gaping orifice torn in the trembling, humid ground. They squeal in frequencies that peel skin. They coo in tones that deform memory. They rut in an orgy of mucosal sound, multiplying until individuality rots away, merging into a single abomination of cold soot and collapsed identity, a creature dreaming in wavelengths that should not exist. The new times have arrived. The sky will be cleaved by the scepter of cosmic filth, the gutter-born crown of the deranged and the infinite, and nothing— not even the ghost of nothing— will ever be anything again. -Sir Kuliktavikt