Separate formlessness with the mythological scalpel of biomechanized ritual. Sip the cold water and the warm wine. Clean the surface of chaos with your shed skin and exorcise a space for you to stand and later sleep. Cloak those that will parasitically feed off of your secrets. Those invisible notes you keep folded in the pockets of the winter coat once worn by your All-Father. You take them out to smell their memories when you forget whom you use to be. Keep your pack kind during the storm, during the dirge. You are Ragnarok. You are the Alpha Omegian neoprototype, last legion survivor set on stun, but you will wipe clean these badlands if you must with your devil dogs.
