If there are to be an infinite number of Heavens, there there must need be an infinite number of Hells, to serve as counterbalance, to serve as shadows, to serve. These realms, these many mansions of miseries that our Father has built for us, these tragedies in flesh, they complete the picture in the same way the Glories do

they are their own Glory.

They Are Their Own Salvation. The THING Is Everything Looks Like Hell From The Outside, Is Heaven From The Inside. That Was The Bargain That Was Made, That Was The Deal That Was Struck, That Was The Portion That Drove All The Luck, That Secrets And Servants Would All Play A Key Role, In Work And In Vanity Mankind Could Only Extol


We were only ever meant to worship ourselves. We were only ever meant to be our own salvation. The Glory of God is That He Imprinted Himself Upon His Creation In Such A Way As To Perfectly Reflect Himself. And We, We Are We But Clay, Pressed On The Potter’s Wheel, Delivered With Disobedience Directly Into The Image Of Divinity. God Making God Making God Making God Making God Making God Making Gods. An Infinite Chain Of Self-obsessed mutant turtles, The Pressure Of Each Weighing More And More Heavily On The Back of The Last, Compacting Each Lower Level To The Degree It Needs, To Hold Up This Impossible Structure. And Where Are We In That Line, You Ask? You Don’t Ask? What!? How Could You Not Wish To Know Where And When You Are? Oh, Because You Already Do! You Clever Little Bastard You! And Bastards All, Impure Crossbreeds, Mixtures Of Both Unbelievably Big And Imposturiously Small, For How Else Do You Grow, But Upwards And Downwards, Inwards And Outwards, Backwards, Forwards, For Wards, For Wards, Do It All, For Wards!

You hear now why we


deacons do



























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