The olden gods are not dead, but they are not here either. Long ago, beyond a time we could fathom, in a place so sharp and high, suns bled. Their masters fed upon them with closed eyes and open hands always reaching for more.

Oceans of stardust lined the cosmos, and as if in sympathy, the abyss answered with a black sun of its own. Who could ever prophesize such quiet chaos would undo everything under the very feet of the gods which unknowingly stood atop it?

Light writhes upwardly as if trying to return home to some place which only silence inhabits now. One cannot go back to such a sharp and bright place. And so our arms will be left wanting until they open up to black sun.

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