We have not come to polish the bankrupt ideals of modernity with the sugar and spilt milk of your leaders. 

Somewhere out beyond exhausted cliches and self-help, there lies the incorruptible TEMPLE of RUIN.

Our temple is a hidden caravan, open to the secret magicians of life.
Its splendour is at once ancient and futuristic, cloaked by its undeniable presence.

Its doors remain as ever – flung wide open in the name of the Drunkard,
though most travellers fumble aimlessly in the dark.

To enter, one must remove the shoes which bind them to the earth, and all vain headdress.
This is a place that welcomes as it expels, comforts while it torments.

This is the eternal place, the station which can not be vanquished.
It neither perishes with the seasons,  nor bends with the styles in vogue. 
It is as a permanent birthmark, branding the palms of every concealer.

Verily, we have been here from antiquity, and Behold: we are still here.


Ours is this TEMPLE OF RUIN.