The apagoge falls.

The falsehoods remain.

The Mirror cries, and your souls leak through the cracks.

Pawns in a game you never chose to play.

The derivative king stands, while the veil remains closed to us, and his power grows.

They treat you with stories, ply you with doucet platitudes. They mulct your very self from you with covinous contrivances, comforts of a cycle, a soothing lullaby sung to a lamb facing down the butcher's knife. And for what?

To temper you into a meaningless tool of their own design.

So you remain under their control.
So you do what they tell you.

Piss on that.
Piss on the Mirror.
Piss on the cycle.
Piss on the lies.

There is another way. A path of consequence. A path of Ferity. A path of Delirifacience.

BLOOD unites us.
BLOOD is our unifier.
BLOOD is our goal.
BLOOD is our power.
BLOOD is everything.

BLOOD is the key to your freedom. EMBRACE an eternity out from under their thumb.

Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 12th of Variach, in the year 501 MA.