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.
My Sun Got Lost
Shadow is never heaven, Spoken like chariots, Fire for liars, And lions for Christians, My first sun, Set and sold, Like a slave, Shackled to sky, Blotched, By smoldering spell books, Thrown with pitch, After walking on water, Witches burn.