In the chthonic realm, the blood of all the world gathers, a great coursing river of red, raging in war and sorrow, flowing into the impenetrable darkness where all that is must surely fall. The roar of that river shakes a man’s bones, but from that abyss no echo returns; the terrible noise of that river falls into silence.
If one were of a mind, he may go to that river, but none have ever crossed. The current is treacherous, and the blood, unforgiving, remorselessly drives all who venture towards the opposing bank into the inevitable darkness which takes and never gives.
But look across; you will see: visions to some, lies to others, phantoms surely. What is on the other side cannot be expressed clearly. A man said he saw the reason there, and mumbling such, waded into the blood. Over his head came the river, and enveloped, he was taken into the darkness.
What I saw was like light, light in that dark place underground. Surely I would have gone into the river because of that light but for one thing: I had seen light before, and remembering, thought to return to the light I knew. And so I left the chthonic place where all the blood which is poured out on the earth gathers; I came home.