On that eternal path to winter, hidden away in that distant grayness where boughs bend over the lone trespasser to cast whimsical shadows, there is a summer glow stashed away between the gnarled union between tree and earth. It is the cause of much wonderment and despair, of the tinctures of curiosity lining the teary eyes of damsels, of the industrial sheen of sweat and blood upon the breastplate of fallen knights; it is the last vestige of an old summer. Where the mournful distance of life brings down the demons and devils upon each dust-specked footstep, there is a dream that must be filled by that golden glow.
Slowly, a vortex swirls up into the wayward winds and brings them together in its screamed cause… meus causa est meus mos! The orb of fire dips down beyond the western world and an argent disc rises up in its stead, and the falling leaves know it is the time to join battle. The mortal rage of a rufescent summer awakens from its stupor to meet the quiet and crawling invasion of wolves, werewolves and winter, and they clash! In the union of metallic thorns, brazen gauntlets and recrudescent valor, the skies and all its worldly subjects witness a last stand by all of nature’s forces to possess the child who watches… who watches… from the gnarled union between touch and sensation… between intention and reality.
Lights! Music! Walk!
Watch! Watch her defeat the grace that has always subdued her, cowed her into a thing of beauty, and watch on as she becomes the woman whose fury Hell toils to match! Watch her skirt through the rubble, accursed to rot in the rustic glow of a doleful sunset, and mourn with fury the loss of her love! Watch her break free, in the name of all anarchy, and dismiss your attention for its patronizing hedonism… bleed, sire and soul, for then you will know the painful journey she waits to finish!