The nervousness and temperature of the encryptor of the message is palpable. Inside the straw-deserted domicile of glass, unfruitful melancholy grinds down every particle of thought, once pulsing columns of bodily fluid glaciate in the grip of wintered guilt, floras bounded limbs already turning ashen into dusty moondust, the sun-bursted yearning fruit overtaken by rank malady yields fruit of sullen leaden stone, whilst Sammael, in his tabernacle in-between time, dreams down into eternal dream.

Ken Unsworth, September 2001