It will not do to feel forsaken. It will not do to call the moon a thief. The daylight was lost in the first twirl, the dance of days, the music of the spheres. The dice tossed so long ago that our species wasn't extant, let alone in the game. The wager of light and shadow, the bet upon eye or instinct. Nothing ever ventured to measure such a loss. No fate ever so settled as to redeem all your fuckery and shit-heeled prayers. I was broken from the get go. The soul burnt out long before the devil sold the sun.
Mostly it is the strange migration of detail from backdrop to foreground. Mostly it is the evident encyclical of bone and wing. The soot colored flesh, the wasted landscape of pit and rise. Dark gods may return as monsters. Angels may try to sell you magic beans. If you stare into the hinted oblivion above, you will see each of your deaths in Lego form. Celebrities might endorse you for no discernible reason, waving their typical fees. Disbelieve as thoroughly as you can. Just because the dead are speaking doesn't mean you should encourage them.
It says something about the hour, yet neglects to mind the time. It says something about the cosmos, yet does not offer faith or flesh. Come dark prophecy, come blessed message, the earth and sky do not long or fret. The fray is too far beyond our pay grade, the universe too much further than our best measure. Remit your gods and demons, awake to that which makes them tremble and blanche. Spill your words and shed your selves. What of the light that is lost us? What of these roads that close as we go by? The new moon will tell us what to watch for when the sun goes out.