It is despair incarnated; it is disorder converted into sound; it is a translation of anger; it is anguish distilled into a black purity. A raging bull has composed this piece through flared nostrils. Horror has asserted its authority in a land of leaking sewers. This noise has emanated from his skull, a cemetery of the melodic. At first, one senses hope, dawn, rainfall, Heaven, the presence of angels, an ethereal atmosphere gilded by harps; then, flies hum over a putrid corpse, demons usurp, flames rise, and the spires of Satan’s horns reveal that we are in the Devil’s Church, not God’s. Sin cloaks here. Satan stares motionlessly against a backdrop of blaring Hell. Skeletal trees are decorated in tragedies. Clowns genuflect in circles. I tour an asylum. Madness reigns with its proud crown, expressed rationally. The collapse of the universe gives way. Divine fingernails scream down the vast chalkboard of night. The sky’s chest is unzipped by supernal paws. Centuries are exterminated by decretal spray.