The sky had turn into a crimson collapse of the Sun and one could swear the Gods were having a feast at the end of Sunset. The far-off noise of the sinking star boiling into the infinite horizon of the waterland. And the waters were indeed vast, as a ship could barely cross them in 8 full moons.
Upon this forsaken world I raise my eyes now, seeing what I already knew of man, nothing more than a receptacle of thoughts, decaying thoughts. A soul is trapped and drunk with thoughts and there are so many thoughts that the soul is suffocating, and in one continuous agony of boundary, keeps falling into oblivion, forever more, every day forgotten. Have we done so since we first saw the Sun shining on the sky? Or the clouds of ration, have they amorphed our feelings?
One day you will meet your feelings and your soul will breathe again, before another abyssal fall takes place, leaving nothing but an empty carcass behind, a you empty that rides the seas of infinity. An empty vessel on a storm of dispise. A wrecked ship trying to reach shallow waters and rest once more. And when one does find the lands of rest, one can rebuild itself. The libra is delicate and see how man is jumping on this side with menacing madness? See how one man forgets his soul?

Oh… and I contemplate this crimson sky one more, for the thousandth time in a neverending fall to understand. I raise to descend to my ancient me, the one who was in balance with the soul. Now behold… you need them to survive… daemons of mind controll you, not because they want, but because you need. You forget the soul and find your warmth in the cold truthful sayings of the daemons. How more can one sin?
This shroud is covering the skies of a million sunsets and makes me wonder at the beyond, and at the within. What laid there and is lost, what burned here and is found. Oh how pathetic this existance is, when life destroys life. How can this be permitted and what game are we in? What divine being sets the stange of this odd desolate life. Who are we to do so?

And yet, I meditate upon my mortality under the crimson collapse of the Sun in the ocean of false regrets and endless hypocrisy, where empty ships, abandoned and desolate, try to reach shore.

Can you hear thre Gods celebrate now? Look… the Moon is rising and the Wolf exits the den, again…