The ailing War Witch watches the dying sun pass above, and above, always above, the madness of a fading red eye and reminiscent of all the hollow blood she has sent to the boneyard and makeshift graves among her sleepy countryside manor.
In a decayed garden of vicious delight, there is a funerary wreath, a nightshade pillow, the pale and unloved faces as empty as dinner plates, her nightmare arrival in MontrΓ©al, an entire poisoned cityscape of randy and wealthy vampires and the war-like lust of digital prostitutes with blue-bruises all over their broken and torn bodies, her angelic skin pock-marked, deadwhite and ashen, foreign, claycolored and eyes blank with a remote sadness, the impending snowfall veils the vibrant and living trees in her silvering sky-forest beyond the old mud chapel and lifeless ruins of ancient Slavic stone walls and vast canopy of gun-metal green military tents, the bombs and explosions in the distance sound like tornadic thunder or giant horses galloping in a wild field before a storm, her collected black souls in murky glass jars aligned in perfect mortuary-like funeral rows, strange tombs lightly dolled and masked in white roses and secrets, secret-life, and how in that unholy blackness, she sees things.