it s almost night the clouds are streaked with violet and the moon is bright banish your innocence there is no breeze disquiet lurks in silence by this place of power your sins must escalate what has come before and recurs perpetually is on it s way cherish each atrocity woodland dark surroundings ill lit by twin beacons a black car approaches with two men inside it with the right temptation murder needs to prompting the man riding shotgun has just killed his own son to nurture the white worms still and isolated the woodframe house stands vacant humans that once lived here can no longer be found and yet all are present well fed and ghastly white in the mound of moist earth that sits just by the road his rigid features inexpressive he flings his son s blonde head upon the heap this last act earns him his metamorphosis for he who built the house is at the wheel to nurture the white worms darkling souls though larval with each sin can mutate into something dreadful before dawn you ll pupate and feed on innocents nourished by more like you to someday haunt the aether in obscene evolution the house is hell with it s windows all agape through these come some worms and they have sprouted wings fear is forever the objective to goad the rest of humanity into acts of pervert nature and bring out the worm in all of us