ALL HAIL THE AMERICAN NIGHT

The nights have grown cold here in Syren Sea. The world around me seems drunk with delusion. Painted ladies, beautiful in their madness, crane their necks to the sky for answers. The stars stare back with rueful smiles. "Figure it for yourselves," they respond. The painted ladies strip down to frozen flesh in hopes of absolution. The moon sneers, "Your flesh cannot outshine me."

Townsmen, drunk with ale, brag of conquests and treasure. Boisterous in taverns, they wear the garlands of their heroes' triumphs as their own. "We are champions," they cry and the desert laughs at them. "You are made of what I am and no more," the desert says, "You are sand and dust. There are no monuments to your feats as there were to your fathers'."

Gentlemen of leisure in silken suits hand them pouches of pyrite, glistening golden in the night. They take their gifts and gamble for the Savior's robes and wage their children's souls. They sell each other casks of wine and fatted calves. They think nothing of the dawn.

I call to them in the distance, but no one seems to hear. Jack Knave has smiled his easy smile and sung tunes that drown my words.

Along the horizon, barely seen against the sky, the Beast of Seven and Ten arises, beckoned by the siren song. My nation's fate awaits the light.

Some say the last fight will come in a whimper; I say it will be a roar.

All hail the American Night.