The Archons are not your friends: well dressed grifters, sleight of hand adepts, they will steal your bones if you let them near.

The Archons only stopped eating children when we let them hook our souls into their infernal machines, teaching them to see our progeny not as raw bites and nibbles, but amphorae, contents slowly fermenting in the cool climate of our terror.

The Archons, full of malignant condensate: choked back greed, lust tightly reigned, hate checked against fear; repressed seepings hungrily lapped from the cold mirror of our civilized eyes.

Bubbling from the bones, rushing with monocytes, the lies of an Archon are structural, instinctual. Deceit the face, not the mask.

Your well groomed ignorance, the plasticity of your fear, your willingness to pursue paths radically antithetical to your well being in the name of self interest. The Archons have such joyful faith in you!