Nibiru's calling. A planet of absolute ice, deeply darkened into the Abyss of Death. I'm hearing the Voice of the Black Wind inside my cranial microchips.

There was a world called Sireskum, all made of some kind of glass that we cannot imagine. Fire like diamond, grass like spyrals of madness, stars like pits of Hell.

This sun is an illusion. I see beyond apparence.

Ten rockets like arrows against the sky, Charon's lepered ravens.

A flower of snakes, a brown crown made of Nothing that destroys any human feeling, leaving only some scat of agonizing larvas. Heaven is falling, hard clouds of uranium blossom in this bloody night of phantoms.

Broken glasses everywhere. Ruins of a Byzantine Palace, mosaic pavements destroyed by abandon, destroyed by Abaddon.

Frozen alien corpses, deep in a remote permafrost. Their eyes are like basalt stones, spreading the Black Light of Feyaden, leading to madness any human being who dares to stare their evershining darkness.

Fractals of hopeless estinction are growing within my multiple eyes, pitchblack poisonous seals.

A grey star spits rays of damnation upon the subhuman breed that survives on a moribund stony planet around it.

Balamir's hair is a wide ocean of blue electric worms, dark as intergalactic space. The man who falls into this maelstrom of ghastly serpents is annihilated: what remains of his soul is only a fistful of dying flies.