All of this is the embalmment of recalcitrance, despair, hatred, dislike. I must mummify it all. I must wrap it all up in camphorous cotton sleeves. I must sing sorrowful praises for the Ankara of the dead, moving slowly through the pyramids of the passage of time. Into ornate funeral catacombs.

I am dressing up each entryway, placing panels of renunciation in fresco antler cornices, to announce the uncallibrated wilderness of tooth and nail that would remain forever in ornate edification of casket woven mummified corpses.

It is now the funeral march. I am engaging, disengaging, watching the solemn forms of the Amenhotep priest ilk kinds marching in rapturous incantation towards the ceremonial enclosure of the dusk of remorse.

All of this has gathered itself into a decrepit, decaying, disfigurement of the soul’s resting place.

It is time now for the next regeneration. The cognitive evolution away from all that has been lost, given away, torn asunder, placed down on the parapet carpet lung of the tomb of engulfment.

It is now time to ceremoniously walk away. There is another temporal plane of disbelief where all these errant echoes will build up with skin, whatever they wish to be. But away from me, so it matters not.

The trial of ceremonial tribulation has been completed. The juridical jaws of enlightened passageways into the reopening of the soul have spoken. It is over. It is time to close the sepulcher doors.