“They prate in their proud, vengeful lasciviousness. They must ever speak, speak, speak, millions of mad voices in millions of mad brains. Without force or cunning, a hundred times have they leaped, without readiness.
They make living things their gold, and their gold a living thing. They would make the Earth their concubine. They writhe and dig for Her Blackness, and gnaw at Her spine.
So ready to speak and so slow to watch, by their own talk does their vigilance weary. They understand neither the pentagram nor the triangle. They would see us all writhing on the hot sands of hell…”