"This thing I'm telling you about, I saw with my own eyes: behind my window of Hell, I clenched my teeth, and watched the town of Bardez turn into a heap of ashes. The corpses were piled as high as trees, and from the springs, from the streams and the road, the blood was a stubborn murmur, and still calls revenge in my ear. ... Don't be afraid; I must tell you what I saw, so people will understand the crimes men do to men." Who is Laura Yan? What is the definition of "life"? Angels, desperate for breath, have been known to steal it from the living. The price: to one day die, and, having cast aside God's own design, to spend the remainder of Everything and Nothing in that other place, where go those who could not find satisfaction or solace in simple goodness, or the love of goodness, or decency, or honesty, or the truth, wherever it may be, no, but needed their psyches subsidized by red palms and overpriced cheese. What potency wot could spy the machinations of the human rat-king down below, would willingly submit to this sexed-up (I mean even moreso) Guantánamo, only to be then be forever filled with fire, and encased in ice? Yes, these body snatchers do the hedon's work, but even those glorified medusæ must loosen their gorgon's tendrils upon the sting of the initial penetration of Loss. Even cows can feel stress. This is reassuring, is it not? Who is Laura Yan? She is the Ratking, a billion dæmonic sewer rats shifting and swimming within one another as a single black, shrieking Leviathan, stretching abominably into the distance, beyond where one perceives the curvature of the Earth, beyond what you or I can comprehend, al the endless victimsss of all the miniscule mistakes we allow ourselves each day, and forget, ere our next breath cruelly births us into infinite insidious futures, with barely enough time to let escape those words, "I'm burning, I'm burning, throw more oil on the fire; I'm drowning, I'm drowning, throw me into a deep sea." Was it worth it, to smoke that cigarette? To experience constipation? Was it? "Rain will fall again on your smooth pavement, a light rain like a breath or a step. The breeze and the dawn will flourish again when you return, as if beneath your step. ... There will be other days, there will be other voices. You will smile alone. The cats will know." May you wake up to discover all your possessions have become rabid bat fæces, and may your perilously greased-up and impotent conception of "France" actually come into existence, only to be fire-bombed until it rests below the crust of the Earth, Hitler's Atlantis. Bonne nuit, mon chatte.