Cling to your dying world, your inane collection of portraits, those who lie with great ease, infested objects and the wild animals of the wood, your thousand faces and people spinning in pirouettes for the attention of others hanging from the same tree you get hung from. Ruhin spirits, skin tasters and the Hindu rituals along the banks of the Mother Ganges, this entire wicked, ugly blue Islamic marble will bathe in blood, wait and see. Praise your lifetime abominations, raw leprosy, lust and pride, a political preached rebellion and false Gods of social media. Worship your mechanical and digital addictions, thine army of demons under religious control, burnt monasteries, ambrosial flowers, contraband and await the whispers and fine drizzle, the pallid Ones, the Elect who will dance on the corpses' ashes.