They want floods of rain, serpentine things like a malison spawned hurricane, the sanctities of Heaven-like Hell and a Hell-like Heaven standing as syrupy as sleepy stars among the bright-lights of a Hollywood sign, her pale dominion cleansing and comforting, a cold and callous crown, potent and imaginative, a Duchess for now, a matchless Queen eventually, warring in Heaven and warring in Hell, up she rises as sweet as madness in a frost-morgue of eternity, without warning, her lifeless rib, her thousands of voices speaking at once, your damnation.