The Shrine of Mad Laughter

God of terror, very low dost thou bring us, very low hast thou brought us... 

sensation of everlasting rot and those frantic wails, no, it is not a fall into 
the abyss, the defiance of descent, a coronation beyond liberty and slavery; 
the cry of woe and deliverance exudes a flame, evasive as sound and ether: 
an instant of collusion with death, without hope nor prospect, yet it is a 
world below and above and in all eternity, a gift of fever, the wind of death 
that sustains the life in me, yes, the lightness of hovering in permanent 
anguish; I dared to borrow those words, to articulate them and to savour 
their turpitude, as I beheld the shrine of mad laughter. 

The limit is crossed with a weary horror: hope seemed a respect which fatigue grants to the necessity of the world. 

As if Death was dashed onto the death within, a violent thrust stealing the light of the eyes, a ray of darkness, a negation, the bread of bitterness that ignites neither devotion nor fervour; resplendent nothingness! make all things appear with clarity, ruined in the flame of repudiation, in the flame of God! Interwoven joy and confusion, a stabbing confusion, asphyxiation from within, yet I gained this certitude: malediction, degradation, sown in me like seeds, now belonged to death, in harbouring a desire for the hideous, I was beckoning to death. Insatiable combustion, expand, this body is the vessel of grace! 

The idea of God is pale next to that of perdition, but of this I could have no inkling in advance.