Every creation is also a piece of its creator. In an empty room eyes without a face. They are stirring other images, glimpses of a distant life, of a gone life. The hands cannot identify the face Behind the Iron Mask Dim is within on the plane of the mind a kneeled spirit under the boot of fear cleansed with torture traped in purity by the whip. Daggers from sound penetrate resistance behind each one, a Holy inquisitor.
Mouths reveal the presence of haunted beings unworthy to be said alive.
Open the window Release the spirit from this empty body Behind the Iron Mask Draining pleasures from mental wounds a need opposed to false excuses unveils the greatest beast. I was sailling in the sea of lethargy upon an empty dream when land appeared and filled the endless horizon. White pilars from marble deep into a garden were shining like guiding stars. In the garden of illusions encircled from the pillars I found my idol but clouds filled the purple sky and shed their crystal tears and the idol became muddy. In the place where the idol was, appeared a white flower.