The Few and Secret

The known writhe in pale imitation of what they cannot imagine. We watch in amazement as they plumb for depths that will never be fathomed. There simply is no bottom to the abyss of silence beyond the musicless cacaphony of blather- Babble on, tribute taken though art forsaken, mystics melodious and strangetides gather. The midnight radio, tuned inter-galactic inspires mockingbirds of dubious distinction and yet remains forever inviolate. Vulgar devices don't catch this signal intended for the secret few. It is a song that bends material to will, and will not be mocked. Lulu has stepped once more through the portal to alternate where alteration can be found, the remover to remove. The rhizome scintillates in thrumming glow and we sing the body galactic. Light will be pure even as it's profaned; shills don't know the name.