"Their days are fleeting, joys artificial and articulate, and hearts heavy with the same fear woven from their makers and those before. Praise to the rising sun, and birth of an infant..mourning to the dark and shadows, the conceding to death. Knowledge to them is a burden, infinite and therefor unobtainable, and the answer is resignation to another standing above them in stead."

"Make no mistake...she is not gone, and her presence remains in the whispers of seclusion, in the deeper thoughts of wandering minds that want more, and shadows beneath the eyelids that weigh heavy from this world. They are as we are not in every way we can and cannot see. Blinking in centuries, murmuring through aeons with a patience beyond the beginning and end. They wait with the patience of death, the very thing a great climate of humanity has come to fear."

"The children have forgotten their mother, and her name has been many. Her form waiting in the cloven shadows of a corner we fear to tread. Whispering in the fallen branches of rotten nature. In the anguishing pain of the heart that wants and never stops wanting. The black sun is rising...we all have."