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These are the translinear nonthoughts of Charles Dexter Ward after he passed absolutely beyond. In reality these cannot be said to be his actual thoughts because, beyond the Abyss, past Hallucinatory Mountain, id-entity in the sense usually understood by anatomically modern humans does not obtain; neither does time. The goal of the Great Work is not the union of opposites, but their mutual negation: in other words, neither instead of both. Not being and not not-being. The double absence. We are many and our names are legion. Charles Dexter is an endless NAUGHT. The original and only true use of art is magickal.

On October 15, 2007, I possessed myself with the demon Choronzon as Aleister Crowley had previously done on December 6, 1909. These are the results.

This magickal journal isn't intended as a literary exercise, but rather a silhouette of shadows based on the actual events involved within the work of the Nu-Phaëton Lodge, a room devoted to debauchery and strangely silent snarls stained hideously with black.

"Surely we are living in a Dream?"

"...Up, up soared the phoenix of her song; step by step on music's golden scaling-ladder she stormed the citadel of her Desire..."