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.
Time Catches Its Reflection
It came into me, Like a cannibal, And left me, In a coma, As I fell, In circles, Prodded by ticks, And tocked by every prick, Laying each sick second, Out across epochs, Drawn raw, And spread red, Time even hates itself, Hates itself to death.