The daily signs, in all their irony, remind me of the absence of chance to turn to something else, for I'm bound to the Devil with unbreakable chains, firmly held by His Sons whose hearts are drunk with the liquor of deception. Faith in the Holy Retriever leaves nothing much but void, as His silent voice weakens nerves and sanity. Bleed, bleed the knuckles on the wall of captivity, covered with clumsy scribblings, emblems of deficiency, flightiness and vanity; smelling, dripping urine and lechery from the ground to the roof. Bleed, bleed the knuckles on the walls of duplicity, for there are walls, and walls, and walls, and no door... Revelations through emptiness. Omniabsence filled by His greatness. There's no way out, no chance to solve a riddle unconscious of itself, for the mystery is concealed at the heart of madness. Bleed the knuckles, bleed for tempting yet sterile appears the way to take by force and not through inner ascension what it is eagered for. Revelations through emptiness. Omniabsence filled by His greatness. Thus the way is clear, but catechism remains blank. Lost in a cold mist of unearthly thickness, the Sun abides doubtlessly, desperately, cruelly omniabsent. Alone among them all... Alone, alone in the glance of the Devil.