Life-giving mementos float across deep indigo night, watched by ash gray and blank faces of a living moon, rising a crowd of privileged decadents, dancing strangers who gather beneath the permanent twilight. They hear a name, wailed in shrieking tones at all hours of night and day. It is not one they recognize, much less one they know as their own. But it yanks them by the spine of the soul, by that bundle of nerves gathering behind the mind’s eye, a name written not in letters but in pictures and whispers, in the language of nightmares, in clouds of ash, radioactive bits of rock and carrion from halfway across the world, a tropospheric spiral of remains gathering in hushed tones, a wretched billowing of dust, the caput mortuum of that insatiable death machine, madder brown coughing from engines combustible by misery. What songs do the victims sing? In spectrum red and lemon yellow harmonies their voices bleed a chorus of resurrection, on dull viridian papyrus a whispering of remembrance in haunting echoes against knife-sharp rock, bleached cave walls like teeth-white coral beneath melodies dancing a dance of regeneration, masterworks of holy defiance written in swirling pools of blood, warm violet flowing in grayscaled earth.