Thou hermit of Old Night who wadest into the turbulence 
of the waters un-drowned, who verily enters into death?s 
magisterium without fear, thou whose toil is the 
ineffable work of the abyss that draws forth the all 
slaying solve, thou art amongst the deathless race of the 
kingless, beyond the provenance of god. In the light of 
Lucifer?s dawn, thy shadow casts long and dim before 
thee. In the pitch of Noctifer?s saturnine night thy 
shadow is the very face of the abyss. Oh vajra-hearted 
lord enthroned within the silence between the birth and 
death of every thought, in thronismos within the shadowed 
temple at the crux of the cruciform! Yet shall the very 
abyss of thought be wholly illuminated by the gleam from 
thy morningstar lantern, the fruit plucked from the 
deepest root. To guide the pandemonion of self unto the 
scarlet hill of martyrdom, upon the path that even devas 
are cursed to tread. Thou hast withdrawn the husks of the 
most bitter seed and the garments from the gods 
themselves, to reach the hypostasis that is a black pearl 
dazzling the 7 aeons. Betwixt the hammer and anvil of 
becoming is thy presence eternal that is in between-ness 
known as N.O.X. Self-murderer and Self-begetter, with 
eyes fixed unto the cup of Djemscheed, thou breakest the 
chains forged by stellar gravity. Oh, the motionless 
movement of Death! With both the soberness of the 
Amethyst and the mad Satyr's ecstatic thirst, leap ye 
forth into the Mandala's center – The Point where sun and 
moon collide, crushed to lifeless splinters before 
ancient Night's hollow eye.