These remnants, rotting keepsakes of words and pictures are mnemonically residual. They are scryed, interfaces utilizing misfired sigilings, systems of incomplete quasi-alchemical call-signs and proto-symbologies loosely based upon borrowed (and in some cases stolen) artificially charged devices. When assembled into specific schemas, this soft machinery marks as it contains, and thus constructs the Terminal House.
I have kissed Purgatory and now it is on fire. Time for sleepwalking down Jacob's upside down, inside out ladder. Heaven is for dragon chasers and lonely messiahs and I simply cannot see it anymore.