Deep clothed in the darkness of a web is our eyes looking out across the ages. It was hard to draw a moment and capture its pulse. The fallibility upon us all is like the silver streaks of white which melt our hearts to the graven image. The death light of the idols occurs as night sweeps over the lagoon. Violence, and fire, and the wide winds of war, all fall upon our heads as the sentence begotten of our foolishness. Our lives are like straw by the fire, a bright light by the shore of death. The imminent is our failure and the transcendent our valid hope. And this hope is what shines like the dew in the forests of may. The darkness of this night is purity where our hands hold the engines of the stars, as they hold their love down unto the leaves, casting shadows, and the images of shadows which hold eternity present in its strange dance of friendship. There, in the mystic image of love, and in the fog of this blessed darkness, is the cup of life. Roses spurned the weakness of our hearts so that we could behold this cup, and by the deep sea of awe, we find wisdom. All things are understood then as all things are forgotten. Bury us in the light! Bleed our eyes clean! So we can see this great night!