Graven in torment, in sin, in the lightning-wreathed mountain hellscapes of the Inner Soul, in the wine-dark void of Utmost Space, in blood-ink, in night-terror, in all the tomes which are bound in squidskin and the hides of bats, graven on eyes which long to forget what they’ve seen, in the whine of small machines and the cries of rent and mutilated things, in the symphony of shattering planets and the dark fire of annihilated suns, thus are the forms of JonnyX and the Groadies:
JonnyX himself, a man ripped from the womb of a kinder world. In his fiery passage across the skies he has seen things—things that would tear the sanity out of your mind—and indeed it is for you that he suffers. He is a flayed nerve, a de-lidded eye: in his howls are all our terrors echoed.
INVISIBLETOUCH, who in some tongues is called the Bright-Painted Void. The Groadies perform in darkness, and thus you will see his eldritch form only in flickering half-light, only in glimpses at the periphery of your half-believing vision. This is well.
Travis, slim and dark like a blasphemous thread in the tapestry of existence. His ways are obscure; his words are few. His evil pulses in the blood-thick air.
Professor Romagna, whom they laughed out of the Western Ostvald Philological Debating-Society—whom they called insane when he presented his dissertation before the so-called sages of this deluded madhouse they call the world—insane? When every night a thousand diodes blink at his whim? When electric flame traces silicon paths, and the song of the Device is his, his to conjure?
- Matthew Mitchell, Oct. 2006.
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