Edna St. Vincent Millay lived in defiance of the world. Her words offer no consolation. She did not bow to death. When she heard his calls, she sang a dirge stripped of music.

No heaven.

No comfort.

No surrender.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

1892 † 1950

Dirge without music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned

With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.

Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.

A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,

A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—

They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled

Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Do not approve. Do not resign.

Leave an offering †Join the secret cult.

Original photos by Julia Kadel and Carl Van Vechten. Modified by Ashmore under the Unsplash License.

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César Vallejo was beaten by life.He knew hunger, prisons, and exile. His blows of God meant the world itself.

The fascists and their wars broke him.

When they reached the Mediterranean, cutting him from his beloved Spain, he died in pain.

No salvation.No glory.

César Vallejo 1892 † 1938

The Black Heralds

Some blows in life, they’re so heavy . . . I don’t know. Blows as if dealt by God’s own wrath, as if, ahead, the rip of every single thing we’d ever suffered had pooled inside our souls . . . I don’t know. These are few, but there they are . . . They carve dark trenches in the toughest faces, the fiercest backs. Perhaps they’re the racks of barbarous Attilas, or else the black heralds that Death has sent us. They’re the steep fall of some Christ from the soul, of the laudable faith that Fate can make foul of. Those bloodied blows are the sounds of bread crackling in oven doors, turning to charcoal. As for man . . . woe is he . . . woe. He turns his gaze, as if answering the call of a slap on the shoulder: his expression is wild and all that he’s lived through is settled, like penitent pools, in his eyes. Some blows in life, they’re so heavy. . . I don’t know.

(Translated by Yvette Siegert, Public Domain)

Los heraldos negros

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes. . . Yo no sé! Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos, la resaca de todo lo sufrido se empozara en el alma . . . Yo no sé! Son pocos, pero son. . . Abren zanjas oscuras en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte. Serán tal vez los potros de bárbaros atilas; o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte. Son las caídas honda de los Cristos del alma, de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema. Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones de algún pan que en la Puerta del horno se nos quema. Y el hombre. . . Pobre . . . pobre! Vuelve los ojos, como cuando por sobre el hombre nos llama una palmada; vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido se empoza, como un charco de culpa, en la mirada. Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes . . . Yo no sé!

(Written 1918)

Leave an offering †

Join the secret cult.

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I Am The Demon Of The End contains the final words. Nothing more can be said.

Mystery, Babylon The Great (Aurora Gamourtian) summoned this voice, the last to speak.

It reveals the ultimate truth. The last truth we need to hear.

You shall enjoy no longer. The enjoyment was always destined to be mine, for I am the demon of the six rhythms of Hell and you could never hope to know my depths.

Everything crumbles after these words are read.

If you dare to accept yourself as you are, listen, and read:

Leave an offering. †Secrets.

I am dust.

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A Hunger speaks from the depths.

JLG Noga summoned this demon.

It shows the way to Nirvana—a place that could have been mine. But I turned from the light.

Now, show them the light we see. In slow gorges, if you can. The slower, the better. It’s more tender that way.

I know this hunger. My memories have returned.

Read all the words here:

Leave an offering. †Secrets.

I know a way out.

Background image by Marius Gerome. Modified by Ashmore under the Unsplash license.

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Kenotita has spoken.

Katharine Kapodistria summoned this demon.

The demon of the void drank my moments I should have lived. Am I good enough? Am I enough? No… no. Oh gods, I am so hungry.

Have you forgotten you’re a child of the universe, that you’re stardust,That you have an animal body and an eternal soul?

Kenotita tells me of the slow erasure of what I should have been.

Read all the words here:

Leave an offering. †Secrets.

Background image by Dan Mayer. Modified under the Unsplash license.

Have you forgotten your animal body?

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RUIN: has spoken.

Edward.Marlo.Ruiz summoned this demon.

The altars of madness echo with the many tongues of RUIN:A demon that shapes even the voice of Ashmore.

We are the shift between the sands of time. The darkness between the grains. Don’t you feel them between your teeth?

It is you.It is me.Look at us.

Read the words of RUIN: here:

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Kasra of the Cracks, has spoken.

JR Phillips summoned this demon.I promised myself not to surrender to the lesser.

I would have welcomed it if Kasra called me back to the sheets and named me darling. But my demon was not like Kasra's.

My demon left me alone in the dark—no words that made sense.Others are haunted by Kasra’s love nightmare. But for me, Kasra is a loving mother.

No price,for you have already long since paid.

I do not wish for any of you to meet Kasra. Or my demon.In the end, they are both equal.

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Marasme, Demon of the Lesser Evil, has spoken. Saint-Lazare summoned this demon.

So long have I summoned this demon, day by day, year by year. I drowned in mediocrity. I became a master of excuses.

And to thank you, I will not let you feel any pride.

I forgot the taste of pride. I will never remember, not while I live beneath Satan’s sun.

Now Marasme has named himself. I know what he is.It is time to discover who I am, before my life is wasted utterly.

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Dagavik, Lord of the Unseen, has spoken.

Bradley Ramsey summoned this demon.

Dagavik tells a story I’ve lived myself. One, I thought I could silence. But I know that scream in the dark:

WHY? WHY WON’T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE!

Drowning Dagavik didn’t help. I tried. Reasoning didn’t help either. I tried that too.

He didn’t leave me.

Now, I know the breathing behind my shoulder. And when I turn, he hides.

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A letter to my father. Read aloud, before the silence.

†

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