Yet, one wonders, what is it that is so terrible? To question is to begin to lose control, slowly one sinks into the pit of madness, experiencing exquisite pleasure at the taste of freedom from pettiness and the narrow life. Fearfully, one acknowledges the green slimy stub of a candle burning above the goat's head, keeping record of one's diminishing existence. Below it is the witches' golden pentacle, inverted and placed between the goat's upcurling horns, a blue bottle fly at center.
Recalling the old witches' saying about power abiding where there is fear, one plunges deeper into the pit and is engulfed by a fiery red circle. Otherwise chaos becomes rampant shattering psyche. As it is, one sees its wanton needs leering, an inborn weakness unable to fend off the destructive spiral of fear. "I will survive it," one says.