The Shrine Of Mad Laughter

God of terror, very low dost thous bring us, very low hast thou brought us

A sensation of everlasting rot and those frantic wails, no, it is not a fall into
the abyss, the defiance of descent, a coronation beyond liberty and slavery;
the cry of woe and deliverance exudes a flame, evasive as sound and ether:
an instant of collusion with death, without hope nor prospect, yet it is a
world below and above and in all eternity, a gift of fever, the wind of death
that sustains the life in me, yes, the lightness of hovering in permanent
anguish; i dared to borrow those words, to articulate them and to savour
their turpitude, as i beheld the shrine of mad laughter.

The limit is crossed with a weary horror: hope seemed a respect which
fatigue grants to the necessity of the world

As if Death was dashed onto the death within, a violent thrust stealing the
light of the eyes, a ray of darkness, a negation, the bread of bitterness that
ignites neither devotion nor fervour; resplendent nothingness! make all
things appear with clarity, ruined in the flame of repudiation, in the flame
of God! Interwoven joy and confusion, a stabbing confusion, asphyxiation
from within, yet i gained this certitude: malediction, degradation, sown in
me like seeds, now I belonged to my flesh; I belonged to death, in harbouring
a desire for the hideous, I was beckoning to death. Insatiable combustion,
expand, this body is thy vessel of grace!

The idea of God is pale next to that of perdition, but of this i could have no
inkling in advance