From The litanies of DeeJ - 5:32 He pulls a shaft of light from the ether, from betwixt the folds of formless void and shadow. And with his words, by stroke of thought, I AM. Fire streaks through nightfall, the thralls of anguish lie barren. Cast asunder by steel and fire. My will is not my own, my fury is not my own. Yet climb ever still to highest peaks, shrieking words of forgotten tongues and forbidden scripture into vast cruel winds of horror and melancholy. And with his words, by stroke of thought, I RISE. Yet many are the names that claim my own. Like the shards of glass and ether buffeted upon autumn winds in fury of crucible fire, my numbers grow. Crowding, seething, vile and virulent I spread. For each broken sword by malice or design, a shadow is cast and made less in form and virtue. And with his words, by stroke of thought, I WAS. Hands tremble upon my flesh, my mouth is hungry, yet I take nothing in. My breath is fire, yet nothing burns. A willing supplicant to madness' hold, I yield before the onslaught, and my voice is quelled. I return to nothing. Yet still I linger. A language I know. Cut from the tongues of enemies, I have learned it's meaning. The subtle cadence of loss. The silent hymns of the fallen. I must speak these words. Scry their meaning from the wounds of the world, and bellow with new lungs; roared betwixt barred fangs and coiled sinew. And with his words, by stroke of thought, I BECOME. What is given, can be taken. What is taken must be learned. What is learned must be applied. And the cycle of WAR is renewed. A garden amongst ash. Cinders amongst ruin. Light, amongst shadow. From the book of Balance Littanies of Deej