Haunted by thy ill angles that impel distressed fires upon boundless chasms, the flames aspire to fill in woeful vales and obscure breaches in the land. Charming fiery orange tongues lash out well over holes and spill across the earth.
Cries are broken and bellowed out. Lethe persons murmur of false legacies. Thy own pretences of the sublime hath no other impression than melancholy rapture. Art thine euphony any less clamorous than that of thy neighbor? All of the broken and fallen and lost beings roam about, searching for a ray of fool’s paradise in hopes for latching onto it and finding contentment.
But no beacon lies ahead. Only disdain and contempt. However these fools hold no disappointment for the lack of compensation that does not precede their former actions. The warriors of night only wish for forbidden bliss and contemplate its meaning because for whatever reason, cannot refrain from the agonizingly bittersweet pleasure they obtain from the merciless hell they have received.