Let it not be said that i am not a realist, let it be instead said, i am a fantasist, living in a realists reality.
The tunnels jaws open up to me, seeking neither to swallow nor consume, but to be explored. Open the black gates, and let oil anoint my crown, for from i shall flow all manner of darkness.
Destroy that which once was to open to that which is. Let the 7 lapels be of the 9 crowns, of the 10 realms, and Hades will open to meet me.
I walk through a cold fire, blue flames licking my bare feet with icy embrace. The colorations are dark, and the intonations of screaming almost lost.
Let me be lost in this world, swallowed by a non reality, a fantasy that has come true. The daemons have come to life, and they watch me, peering behind darkened cowls.
Theyre eyes are of the blackest pitch, no warmth nor light to be found. The darkness of their eyes contrasts the darkness of the cave in which i find myself.
The thin veil between the living and the mute mad has been torn, and i have stepped through.
These dark figures line the hallway, and a faint pittering drip can be heard, though i know not from whence it comes. Illumination is nigh, only contrasting shades of black.
I am walking in the land of the dead, fingers guided to write by a force unseen, and unholy.
These things are revealed to me, which shall come to pass, for the forces whose eyes glint in darkness wait.
The day will come when the veil shall be cast aside, and all manner of creature shall die, only to be remade, of the Black.
Victory is a noble, but fruitless concept for this place, for they know that on that day of Ragnarok, they shall lose. But it is far from a dead purpose which is served.
The light may have its reign of 1000 years, for the Beast is yet patient.
A new Book shall be written, one which shall predict a fate that shall salve all the suffering of many a thousand century.
For the Holy One, in all his might and Wrath, will not destroy his favorite creation. Thus, we, and all legion of Hell, shall march forth on that day, Loss assured.
For to lose the Battle is to win the War. A new world shall emerge, and when the Light touches they eyes of these Unholy Deceivers, they shall be remade.
Once more, Angels, to the eyes of all mortal, and Devil to the eyes of those they cast out. For such is the cycle of Death and Rebirth. One party must reign, another must fall, and on and on.
For when the Angel becomes the Oppressor, his Opponent must take the throne from him, and relieve him to Earthly pleasures for a time.
But always an Eye is cast skyward, for the day shall come that he shall reclaim his spot, an endless dance of equals.
He shall cast his Opponent down, and the Ruler shall become the vehement Opposer. For such is the way of Balance.
That which dwells in the Light must surely be consumed by Dark, lest they forget their divine purpose.
He two which rules over all, must reclaim himself to the throne of Bethlehem, many and a time over. There can be no Light without the soothing embrace of the numbing dark.
For Light may travel far, but they shall find the Dark, waiting. Watching. Wanting. Let the rays pierce through the inky black, for such is the way of the world.
To see that which is unseeable, to embrace it. That is divine. Stare at the sun for many a moon, and miss the twinkling of the far aloft Star.