Yes. It could not be more clear. Everything makes perfect sense. A perfectly executed symphony, the movements filled with the poise of painstakingly practiced ballet or the energetic wild abandon of tribal dance. They are one. It is all the same pattern with its chaotic variance pulsing as a living heart. How could I have not felt this before. The corruption of form upon possibility. The travesty of permanent solidity out of void. Marring of perfection so pristine as to make angels cry out with shuddering sobs of regret at such horrors manifested on a palete unblotted. Order was the blight upon chaos. Yes. The truth sings vibrant and true pulling at my heartstrings and coaxing moans of musical need from my very being with the resonance of its word. How could I have been so blind. Would that I could tear out my eyes and spill tears of bloody joy down fingernail rent cheeks at the glorious knowledge bestowed. Such an act would pale. This revelation should inspire genocide. The upheaval of landmasses. An unending crusade of steely eyed, teeth gnashing, vocals gibbering and body cavorting with shuddering purpose should transpire. A physical form dashed madly against the blighting form. Fire burning lava. Water drowning the seas. Suffocate the ground in an earthy grave.
Awakening with a coppery taste in her mouth Frya realizes she bit the inside of her cheek and she takes a moment to calm herself as the whispers sibilantly giggle.
She lowers her hands, fingers bent into determined claws, from her unmarred face with trembling arms.
'Next time.' promise the whispers. 'Always .. another .. time ...' and we never rest.