. . Do you hear it? We do, we all listen to it here. The Music of Madness No siren ever sang sweeter. . .   . There was a terrible cure employed in old times for insanity, which the people believed in with implicit faith. It consisted in burying the patient for three days and three nights in the earth. A pit was dug, three feet wide and six feet deep, in which the patient was placed, only the head being left uncovered; and during the time of the cure he was allowed no food, and no one was permitted to speak to him, or even to approach him. A harrow-pin was placed over his body, for the harrow-pin is supposed to have peculiar mystic attributes, and was always used in ancient sorceries, and then the unhappy patient was left alone. If he survived the living burial, he was generally taken out of the pit more dead than alive, perished with cold and hunger, and more mad than ever. Yet it was averred that sometimes the senses were actually restored by this inhuman treatment.

-Lady Wilde

. . . Welcome to the home of the lunar kissed The Halls of Bedlam Nocturne . View & Sign . ............................................... 
There was a man underneath a truck today. He
was writhing as the cars passed by on either
side. There was oil on the ground, and on him.
It looked like blood. I saw trees, twisted and
thickly knobbed, twisting as though caught in
some grotesque dance. They felt ancient,
foreboding. Pink blossoms, pale little stars of
flowers, dripped and fell from their branches.
Daffodils are all around me, they smell sweet
like life, vibrant saffron, they look like life. I'd
like to take them home, grow them in an herb
garden, give a petal to a beautiful girl and give
a petal to a beautiful boy. I think I'd like them
in my house, let them grow all around me, then
have them at my wake, place them on my coffin
with roses and pansies and columbines, and a
black lily as the center piece. And maybe I'd
remember that girl I saw, she was beautiful,
with chocolate red hair, blue eyes and pale
skin. She had full painted lips that always
seemed to want to smile but never did. Every
eye that looked at her seemed to push her
away, say she wasn't real. Walking down the
hall, I thought of the girl in the bathroom, her
coated face plastered with a fake smile, wear-
ing a shade of red just a little too off, her blue
eye shadow and black mascara glared off her
dead grey eyes, giving her the feel of an esca-
vated corpse. As she ran her fingers through
her stiff bleach blond hair, it called to mind an
image of barbi dolls being thrown against
cement. With the image of her layers of founda-
tion and blush imposed over the writhing man
in the road, I find the idea of being relevant,
strangely irrelevant.
-Moon Sidhe © 1999 . . . Man's state implies a necessary curse: When not himself, he's mad; when most himself, he's worse -Francis Quarles .