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Gleaned from the Gospel, the title teases in its incompleteness, finding full expression in Matthew 25:41, "Jesus says, 'Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.'" Fas - Ite, Maledicti, in Ignem Aeternvm is conceptually the direct successor of "Si Monvmentvm Reqvires, Circvmspice". It is centred on the notion of divine will, on the seed of perdition that is ontologically a part of Man and therefore of immanent judgement. Musically, it is a very dense album of a technical nature, where violence and dissonance blend into a merciless result, of such nature that it literally kills hope.


Hagios Ho Theos, Sanctus Deus.
Hagios Ischyros, Sanctus Fortis.
Deus, Judica Me...
Ut Quid, Domine, Recessisti Longe?
Judica Me... Perinde ac cadaver...

The Shrine of Mad Laughter

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

A 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 yes, 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.

Bread of Bitterness

From a supplication without response, the essence of man, his ground giving way, comes illumination by a sun of great evil that sets aflame the inner core and enthrones suffocation and the intolerable without respite as the joyful reward for a million aborted truths, this silence that among all man has charged with sacred horror, it becomes sovereign, in repugnant nativity, and detaches itself from the bonds which paralyze a vertiginous movement towards the void. Breathless ecstatic experience, it opens the horizon a bit more, this wound of God; it is the assassination of the abyss of possibilities, the depths of being left to holy vultures.

Such monstrous impurity, and this incessant piety, no less revolting, cried out to heaven and they bore an affinity to God, inasmuch as only utter darkness can be likened to light.

The Repellent Scars of Abandon and Election

The feeling of destroying the capacity for inward peace, an insane dance with the angels of innocence amidst thorns and in frenzy, the warmth of a divine blessing, a daringness which prevailed over any imaginable fear hovering on the brink of a voluntary act of contrition, but soon all pales besides the cry this shattering truth wrests from all fellow men, there is more to it than suffering and sounds of suffering, it is a process that only the extinction of a divine soul could terminate. The eye can outstare neither the sun, nor death... if I sought God it was in delirium and in the delight of temptation.

The idea of Salvation comes, I believe, from the one whom suffering breaks apart. He who masters it, on the contrary, needs to be broken, to proceed on the path towards the rupture.

Nothing of what man can know, to this end, could be evaded without degradation, without sin, - is it no burden to bear the repellent scars of abandon, of election? - it leaves but a state of supplication and deserted expanses, an absorption into despair. The existence of things cannot enclose the death which it brings to me; the existence is itself projected into my death, and it is my death which encloses it. Am I deranged? Over and above quietism! Nurtured by the multitude of man's misfortunes, a thousand halos like torches in the night of the spirit, a thousand traps, pitfalls of brimstone and the empty sky, prostrated face against the earth in frantic laughter...

I was beyond withstanding my own ignominy. I invoked it and blessed it. I progressed even further into vileness and degradation. Am I resurging, intact, out of infamy?

A Chore for the Lost

An exhausted fall into disgrace, famished for peace, for a mere moment of respite in dying eternities, on the verge of being deprived of all humanity: non-sense is the outcome of every possible sins, it is the start of transcendence, the dissolution that spreads without limits and the critical violation; what pleasure of inconceivable purity there is in being an object of abhorrence for the sole being to whom destiny links my life! The rupture is too profound to stand up, nothing remains but a terrified consolation in a laughable renunciation that is not the one of a single man, thou art not dead to the decoration of sin!

Every human being not going to the extreme limit is the servant or the enemy of man and the accomplice of a nameless obscenity.

Let us be a blight on the orchard, on all orchards of this world, even the least of these words will be judged during the times of reckoning, bearing a latent damnation a feverish seduction exasperated in death, every letter is a code to extreme horror, utter contempt and divine conflict; it is lethal to speak the language of resistance, every gasp exhales a particle of the remission of Golgotha, as if the blazing Logos demanded the exercise of a task for a man who cannot bear any longer to be, a chore for the lost in the denial of free will: perinde ac cadaver!


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


Deus, Judica Me
...et Factus est sudor eius sicut guttae sanguinis decurrentis in Terram...
Domine, in pulverem mortis deduxisti me