(no subject)
Only to those who dare decrypt strange signs does death lay bare its secret language. How few, then, are those who savor the swells of night-heat that threaten to burst the ripening darkness, or who taste the rare emanations of distended atmospheres? Fewer still are those who fathom the grandeur of vast plains bruised beneath the wind, or who feel dreams drain like life’s blood into blackest sleep. Do any who survive sense the enigma of the dawn floating like Charon’s ferry over a deadened Earth? And is it true that fewest of all can see in pale, waning crescents the jaw of the wolf that consumes chaos itself?