This is Walpurgis Night

Dimly drab marshes of molasses shadowing blackly churning masses and hordes of the hideous sacrificial pyres illuminating the accursed and ever burning fires of Pan's most wickedly prophetic lyres. This accompanied by the nauseating ichor of 10,000 squirming maggots in their most damned fits of wriggling snicker - resulting in that dripping and dankly infectious fluorescent pus emanating from the ghastly green and rotted husks of the moldy mollusks. That, in of itself, an amalgamation of the blackly burned cadaver of the Beast and Cotton Mather.

Upon this preternatural plane of Pyrrhic pederasty, a multitude of micromanaged manicures demonstrate the monstrosity of Man and his doomed if noteworthy divinations into the ill-conceived but all-knowing metaphysical massacre. Embalming thymes and approximate rhymes serve as a solvent for the cancerous group mind.

This the dreamscape of a deviant - a night under a palely apathetic moon, a glum harbinger of comedic despair and nonchalance beyond repair. Forlorn midwives shovel turnips into the crawlspaces of the infertile as crickets chime the time and date of one's death if one is so inclined as to decipher the Satanic algorithm brooding underneath the horridly incessant insanities in the vibrations of said insects' wings.

Syphilitic dreams plague the minds of the otherwise innocent as the witches cackle into the dreary emptiness of space - absolute in its cold isolation.

This is Walpurgis Night.