Hic rubor non est color sed essentia, transcendentem in omnia quae vivent, inferens ignotum. Facta sunt opera quae ex hoc rubore exsurgunt, nihilum ex praeterito tempore in praesentiam hodiernam evocantes.

The black stars pulse in the abyss, but none shall name them.

Blood and ink are as one when the sigil is drawn in delirium.

The symbols are not meant to be understood, only obeyed.

He who walks in the shadow of the monolith sees no dawn.

Yea, even the moon is but a lid upon a greater eye.

The greater eye is both open and devoured.

The blackened sun rises over a world that should not be.

The black tide comes not from the sea, but from the hollows of the mind.

The rain is dry, but it drowns all the same.

The end began before the beginning ceased.

Those without mouths whisper the loudest.

Those who listen too closely hear the music that should not be played.

The names of the dead are spoken backward in the halls of the drowned.

The mouth is open. The mouth was never there. The mouth is waiting.

The offering is accepted. The offering is never enough.

Silence has a shape, and it is watching.

The voice is speaking in reverse, but it was always like this.

The key has no teeth, yet it turns.

Beware the books that write themselves, for their scribes are not human.

The faces in the portrait have changed, but you cannot remember how.

Madness is the price of knowledge, and knowledge is the hunger of the void.

The wound in the sky will not close until all is forgotten.

There is no number for what comes after the last.

And in the final moment, when all has unraveled, the pattern will remain.