"All the days pass us by,

Where we pretend that these things will vanish,

They will not; not now, not then, and not in the flimsy promise of a future.

No matter what we do, no matter what we try, they are—

Relentless,

Hungry,

Depraved,

— they're not driven not by a goal, or a want,

They simply are,

We have brought all echoes of Aztryxer to bear in our hubris,

These creatures are our punishment, the toxic wastes left behind in an infected wound, the derelict manifestations of something worse than death.

Death would be a mercy,

Death would be our saviour,

For these things are not death,

They are what happens at the end of a crimson world,

and there is no reprieve in the gates of magick."