lately i think of the onion peel thin layers of the alchemist's sins. demogorgon is to demiurge, as... sort of thing, dangling ganglion. or i keep dwelling on pretending my skull is the colour & size of a plum, or that i'm a peach pit, polished black & shiny. or about four-limbed phanes, or how forgotten the words of ensenale have become. those bleak ultra-martian landscapes, ground blooming with crystal balls. take me home take me home. deep canals gone bone dry, red ash sieved down through grates, gumming up the works of the strange machines there. crooked fingers of towers reaching up out of dwarf mountains, features rubbed off of faces, gulfs sinking to colossal depths, bluffs rising to scrape at the black sky. thou dead sphere! all the world a scrawl to say "marduk was here."