Drop down with magnifying glass, tweezers and candle, this ouroborian cycle of the Terminal House. Watch as it devours itself and those that watch. Surgically remove it, isolate it and place it in an envelope and lock with wax and seal. Give the envelope to Roman. The black outline of a circle turns inside, hidden between exorcised, primordial archetypes and barbarous barriers of racial recollection. It is the haunter of the orbits of long dead stars. It is the headless rambler seeking reunification. Inside the house, a hairy heart within a silver cage waits for its own absolution and Roman listens at the door.
