If man wishes to abide so selfishly. Destroying the cupboards of the perennial organic mainstay. Then so be it. Blast him and his kind that would make better that which is best. Or worse degrade the equilibrium God made in Hell. Let the flux from the great cyclique tide inundate the playgrounds of those who would be petty minded and thus deceitful in their malicious out smarting.
There’s no worry to that. So I continue to thrive here in my cave. Like a mineral deposit mummified in the clay covered with ice and copper buckles. A living « terma « hidden in stone. Spending no breath on costly trivialities. Bequeathed and bellowed on the stone-walk.
While surely, there are plenty who notwithstanding by the wayside wait the long awaited debacle. Innumerous the rare number, who watch from Hermon. Like gods tired of being feathered, as Azael.
Lo, trees are smitten and cats beg at doorsteps. The air is unbreathable. All living things from within without irradiated! The hypnotic sun down trodden in terrestial goo. The steps that climb up into and through the waxen skies, blithe. The angels never weeping. The devils in all shapes and sizes, terrified and mourning the desert place they so long worshipped.
And now a desolation is waiting in a virtual aluminium tidbit made of glass, plastic and gold! This will be the next place where devil worship is had.