Death is temporary. But it always ends.

We play because we are Necrolovers.                                  .permadeath scum

We write, we paint, we film, we translate,

we are all led closer to the crypt. To start                           .permadeath detours

again. Back at the beginning. Because                                .permadeath starts at 0 and resets.

any piece of art is a fatal labyrinth. We weave                 .permadeath says scum is inevitable,

through the hedgemaze, but it leads to the                       genre is inevitable,

charnel ground. We as artists and writers                          too much is inevitable.

have the permanent drive toward death.

We try and try again. Permadeath.                                         .permadeath is too much.

Looping through the life of an artwork,

knowing it will end, knowing we will begin

again. Are we always in mourning? The film

.too little is too much,

too much is too little.

snaps on the reel. Our character resets. The

book is printed and shelved. We walk on this

hallowed ground with firm steps.

.permadeath overflows, says statistical memory is deleted.

.permadeath retrieves from the depths its impossible memories.

.permadeath seeks rewards beyond its corporeal trappings which it sheds again and again

.permadeath sheds until only the infinite remains

.permadeath sheds and its shed skin becomes sentient

.permadeath invites others and interlopers along the same detours

.permadeath detours

We remember all that is buried here. We need to

bring back life. Again and again. We want to

survive the void. We become grave robbers,

snatching bodies to make them dance. We

become mediums scratching at the séance

table, idiots translating/transversing/traversing

unknown passages, toxic radiation seeping through

the burial ground. We chant our spells. We possess

the body. We are the eye that follows.