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.
Cold moons, Alone, My doctors, And my pathogens, Haunts, Stop talking, And resist, Whale bone, And dead scientists, Thousands of feet, From infected ground, Leave this behind, Back then, They used to bite, I need this, I need you too.
Everything, Is exploding, It has to be, At this time, Here in this place, Sent, Swept, And recorded, Days contained, And marked blurry, A sea snail, These scrapped hulls, My hairless, Empty shell, And this the day washes, Away, And blown apart.