Among the evolving there's a devolution. There is a siren wailing the savage song of loss. A wave of tension, that as it strikes the shore of progress, emits its high, holy death rattle. And oppositional forces, motivated but unaware that malignant aspirations reside in futility, suffer the universal tendency toward disorder as it stands firmly in opposition of their oppression. In these final stages, when the thrash and temper of humankind reveals itself in part so ugly, so cold. Then does the tightening grip of mortis set in begging for the decisive blow. The succor they seek, the fruit and fallout of their belligerent designs, can know no forever, no perpetual peace. And like all death throes before them, cling as they might, they will leave behind naught but the high, holy death rattle.