Speaking those words, the words I have read so many times, here in this very room, gazing up at the same image that blankets this room as the stars do the night sky...yes, I feel something shiver down my spine. Something that makes my fingers twitch, makes them want to summon my scythe and grip tight the reins of my mount. To feel it move between my legs as I ride, hard, to ruination and destruction. As I ride across that which burns and stings and claws at me.

Where golden laughter rings out as the divine and demonic collide -- the armies of Heaven and Hell meeting on the burning, frozen fields, and in the thundering aires above. And even then, none of it enough to drown out the cacophony of screams below as humanity wails and dies.

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Oh yes, would I ever be there. How I long for it...and yet how I must, with all I am, resist.

How I must ignore that siren-call of the Apocalypse-at-bay. Of the Apocalypse that could ever yet be.

And yet a human voice cuts through all of it to ask, “So...besides that really graphic description of how I should apparently look and how I’m apparently going to do -- seriously, what the fuck...I still don’t get how I’m the Antichrist?”