Consciousness reworked. Sequences shifted. Thought crystallized. Dark veil risen. Whom seek to liberate. Whom seek the inmost truth. Whom entered the path and stumbled. One hell of epiphany. Delirium, and inherent discontent and hunger. An anchorite immured within cursing stones and their discordant chant. An offering refused. Nothing ecstatic about this truth and even gods have deserted. No one will be awaken. No one will be released. And those spastic wriggles of a semazen, desperate with the notion of a flat-lined thought. No one will be awaken. No one will be released. Revelato. An abode of distress. A resonant blasphemy. A constellation of black holes. A clay ratio. Another turn of the wheel of deconstruction. This particular mind has specialized in howling. No one will be awaken. No one will be released.