You park yourself in front of the godless soulless death box and consume. Consume your fill of hate and greed and death and meet and carry on disease, swift, dying throes of madness, a dying society loom doom swoon the dreaded death watch of the deep abyss, carving runes into the charred remains of Igdrazel. Her pleasant struggle in stifled, stymied years, aborted dreams and the finality of love occurs within the silent aperture of forlorn fantasies. My love, I have lost you