The Directive arises from the shattered totality of discarded decadence.

Like a divine harlot offering herself to the gods who have never been (but yet are still aroused), The Directive stands in glistening darkness before the unreal for the appreciation of the unreal alone.

Like the all-encompassing serpent sloughing its skin perpetually to bring matter into being, The Directive strips away the outer layers of self and from each layer moulds creation.

Like a soothsayer reading his own entrails for solace, The Directive looks away and looks within, penetrating the hymen of isolation in search of equilibrium.

The Directive shall not be questioned for The Directive is the question.

The Directive shall not be answered for The Directive is the answer.