Fair ladies and gentlemen of the Shade: There's no place like Hell. I should know, lived there as well. Quite an experience, I would say. We should truly discuss Hell's fulsome anters fromTime to Time, shouldn't we? But as of yet the Time has come for a taste of reality.

My άνάστασις έκ νεκρών (Rise from the Dead) would be but a savage liturgy for Mortal Sin: βάπτισμα διά Θανάτου (Baptism by Death): Mine serenade would rhyme singly to yield unto me, as long as I live. Hup to hav' exhaust'd twain looks, hopefully we could discuss some views, as well as others' withal my fortunes, of beauty and 'ts look.

Where'er I look at thee, methinks of my Linea Vitae (Life's Line) of e'er bleedin' barely for thine, l'Amour pur, of passion an fire, of sweet torment. Shall there be love in Israel of averse illusion? Ay.

T's walks across the derogate alleys of Tel Aviv late of night: I walk on once more by seduction deflower'd, voluptas mortis carnis impii. T's the fresh night, t's myself? T's rather that loneliness again. T's a way that shall round the flavoury of gates, the savoury of dups, rack the burning stake, the livery mine blood spillt, as cautels dire swoon'd alike: Ιησούς Χριστός Θεού Υιός Σωτήρ, T's the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

Yet, would I haply tell the difference betwixt fear and drunkenness? I hav' one clew up the course of soul: sanguis vulneratorum mulieris. T's a piteous taste, ay, t's that sugar breath, ay, cette douleur surhumaine, howbeit, t's the appertinence that infixes up my prains. Is't Evil dream't? T's morn yet? Nill I hark the drum of gracious death withal my pulse obscur'd, an the sharp scent of lust withal thy blood of seven hurts? Volo!