And the red against black is the fulfillment of a contract carried on the bony back of the keeper of a stony plaque engraved with names of the faceless and the maimed by our "sleeper of the age," our "creeper of the page," the reaper of our stolen rage in all his foul glory puffed up with the fear and dignity stripped of all those left in crumbled agony decaying in the stinking heat, evaporating meat. The folded satin on your "Sunday best" shimmers like a glaze on this bright and holy day as you lick the lifeless gaze within this vast and splendid maze where loneliness is churning with maggots and worming, and flesh-eating beetles suck a furious rot.