In a world of decadence, beauty becomes something almost illicit. Out of this dying ground no trees can bear fruit, no seed might germinate in Earth’s warm bosom; the gods have left us, this much we do know. Whatever purity takes refuge within our souls must hitherto take a form alien to the works of man, something terrible, obscene even. What we truly achieve in this world now aspires to negate its origins, to oppose them, to blaspheme against them. TOME OF THE UNREPLENISHED and STARLESS DOMAIN here face each other in this silent, unforgiving purity. Foam and welter how they might, in their desperate attempt to communicate, whatever escapes them is a mockery of existence, a direct nexus betwixt the soul and the deep longing within all that is to return to a time before time. Disjointed layers of noise collide upon each other, screams of anguish and despair reaching most deeply, a hint of melody languishing in resistance. The gates have opened, and emaciated mouth herald the final Divine promise. No longer will the eye not see the lie which protects us from what the mind cannot understand. Rejoice! For now, finally, man shall learn to lament, he shall learn tragedy, he shall know Fate. Nothing can save us, nothing will.