The Daughters of the Night. Three in number, Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos. The spiner of fabric, the weaver and the cutter. The present, the past and the future.

AWE - Clotho

I never had a choice and no one does. The daughters of the night are working, weaving, measuring and cutting. I, for one, believed that I had the power to overcome them and live eternally. I was wrong.

First, the spiner, Clotho. Unknown to me. A piece of fabric, weaved with notes. Her creation is my life, spanning from the first conception, if we allow ourselves to believe that there might be more than one, in one’s spiritual lifeline. There might be. 

I set the goal of overcoming mortality. And the only way was to kill her. I started spanning my own thread, extended to seventeen minutes. It started, or should I say, it erupted from my heart. Salvation needs the Omega, but first things first. I needed to know her.

Defying the gods, a beautiful, elegant lady, eternally spinning the fates of men, with multidimensional orchestration, where simplicity became a burden, though I tend to conceive of thee as the expression of life over death. Sometimes it works at the benefit of the victim, other times it leaves him weak and stranded, waiting for the pendulum of time to stop.

Salvation needs the omega, but the omega never comes. Clotho is an overwhelming experience, with guitar melodies shifting from beauty to ugliness and separate voices plunging into my ears. And there, when I feel ready and worn out comes the uplifting melodies, giving me hope, giving me something not so strange. It feels familiar. It feels like home.

Oh yes. Death is our home. We came from there and there we shall go. But is it true? Is death absolute? Or is it just one of the many deaths in one’s life? I asked her, I begged her and she responded in a dead tongue: 

“Aporia il e denblaha. Aporia sah e denblama. Mas en vuj otrio vastenm. Mas en iftehn lodriann shir. Cktenddet vorsimen! Cktenddet vorsimen! Cktenddet vorsimen al! Cktenddet vorsimen peg al!”

One is Her nature, of three Her disguise. Three is Her nature, one Her Disguise. Salvation meets the Omega, but my time isn’t over yet. For what is breathing is dying and I won’t give up. I set the stage in the bottom bed of my heart and allowed the music take the toll on me. This is my art. This is my time. Not hers. A fate to adore. The fate of mine. Her promise is no more. 

And there, as I stood like a warrior against forces unseen and incomprehensible, a sacred spring forced Her into my spine. With shapeless flames forming fire, my spine became a volcano and lava erupted. To this, in my last moments of consciousness, Parmenides words came to mind:

“Listen, and I will instruct thee—and thou, when thou hearest, shalt ponder—

What are the sole two paths of research that are open to thinking.

One path is: That Being doth be, and Non-Being is not:

This is the way of Conviction, for Truth follows hard in her footsteps.

The other path is: That Being is not, and Non-Being must be;

This one, I tell thee in truth, is an all-incredible pathway.

For thou never canst know what is not (for none can conceive it),

Nor canst thou give it expression, for one thing are Thinking and Being.

...And to me ‘tis indifferent

Whence I begin, for thither again thou shalt find me returning.”

What shall become of me? Listen to this. Listen and accept it.


"Lachesis" rises! Lachesis the whore! The one that holds the reign of my fate was sitting dressed in white and singing playfully to herself “What necessity brought these linear species of human deeds? What knuckle dreams those vermins dream in obscene chords that lie beneath me?”. Oh! The irony. The sarcastic words that struck my senses. “Shall I measure the thread of your life with my spinal rod? Shall I bless you with plague?” she sung and faced me. “Shall I bless you with words that you’ll envy their meaning?”

Shredding the fabric of time, I rise, holding my belief against the inevitable end. The final death. From times before civilization to the industrial sounds of modern era, I question this. Are we doomed to be harvested by her will? To whom is the future known, other than her? Lachesis rises! Lachesis the whore!

It begins, with my fingers hitting the keys and moving along disharmonic melodies. I am the grim voice that hit your ears. I am the chorus of a chaos without end. Can you dance in my rhythm? Can you follow the unending song of her will?

Deeply I sing with madness and my words hit the spinal cord of time, from past to present and the future that flows through my maddening dance. Yes! I am madness maddened by the sheer thought of a chaotic revelation.

I spin around her, covering my mortality with a large weft. Riffing my way with black melodicism, against her, like a fortune dreamer. My cloth may look dim and dull, but it is made by the bloodiest of passions. My will! My fate! My life against the matchless design that waits to be revealed.

My song is of orchestration, rising like a twisting tornado around me. I see my past, floating with pictures. Memories, beloved and hated I despise and she will answer to my demand. Lachesis risen! Lachesis the whore! She’s holding the valorous puppets and I see myself with strings, hanging loosely from her fingers. “Like dust of stars show no more.” spoke her wide mouth.

Like a cynic piece in a rotten needle. Accept it! Accept the inevitable dance of Vacantfield. It is a theater of madness.

END - Atropos

“They call you death and I call you, Atropos, the beginning.”

Like the round shaped serpent, ouroboros, that life is death and death is life. I waited for you until the 8th minute, at the mark of the beginning of the END. I praised you, I wiped for you, I longed for you, Atropos.

With a chorus that sends my will to the sky and beyond, into the darkness, singing the manifestation of your undeniable will. You are Genesis that spawns through chaos and the copulation of Nyx. Process, formation, demiurge.

If I am the listener, the experiencer of your will, then what are you, if not the harsh passing of time. The peak of fear. The undesirable. I fear that time has left me alone, regretting the past times gone with the sharp pain of loss.

“And the wasted time, no longer can be used. This thin spine of cloth needs to be cut.” At the mark of the 8th minute she appears, sharp, divine, riveting and unexpected.

“Though shalt not fear me, because I am death. Though shalt fear your past and your regrets. Your evil deeds that still torment your mind.” She spoke through me and not to me. Possessed by her beauty in instant delirium and as all chains rattle, I am no longer of this earth. “And though shalt have another chance. And though shalt live another life. A new beginning.” 

In between the scissors of time the share is always fair. What you give you shall receive. In pain, pain is born and in forgiveness, time becomes a moment, in your hands, to be held, eternally.

“I, Atropos, daughter of night, ruler of lives finite, unbind the souls with my screams.” 

At the 16th minute, still confined by her will, I bow my head to the undeniable Empress. They may call you death, but my eyes see the beginning. Atropos, the third daughter of the night. Ruler of mortality.

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