Death be my hierophant! Lay bare the paths to the 
precipice. I would endure the torment of black Eden?s 
thorn strewn paths of ingress. I would bask in the shadow 
of the Tree of Death and pluck such terrible fruits from 
its vines to taste of their soma. I seek entrance to the 
Death-Mother?s womb. I am compelled towards her chasm 
which entraps and destroys all light and forms. Oh matron 
of the aphotic and primordial night! Thou art manifest 
and un-manifest, point of paradox. Thou art the darkness 
of empty sky and the glutinous hollows of the earth, 
bloated with corpses and slaked on blood-seed. I would 
enter with thee into fatal copulations. In wrath, pray 
you scourge my flesh and burn your gnosis upon my heart 
until my heart is naught but flame. Black Illuminatrix! 
May I shine with brilliance within your darkness, from 
which my own shadow may arise, cast across your form, a 
shadow that might endure in the absence of the radiant 
moment of its own becoming. I desire to be washed within 
the streams of the counter-current, within the provenance 
that heaves with the dispersion of forms. To drink of the 
lentor of this chasm is to drink the libation of the 
Devil?s grail, for to sate ones thirst from this cup is 
to gain the burning pathway that trespasses beyond the 
binding circle of all eminences of an other. Only then 
may one upraise one?s hands towards the image of the 
Great Opposer and pass through the mirror to become one 
with the reflection that hath become one?s own, one?s 
absolute divinity.