'An arsenal rattles toward the orchestra decorating the queen of demon-fixes as vengeful armour. Profane materia, equipped in roots of lost DNA, she is harm of will to those seeking to deceive. Inkblack bones of providence buzz like lasers in her wake emitting secret hymns. In the skull of a trance matador, gold orbs swirl in oil, vibrating paint off the body. A minor arbiter of formlessness drops a penny of revelation: To capture imaginary souls put to war against decimal gods is revered.'