The needle touches the record fleetingly, like a drunken moth, causing the song to haunt the airways in an erratic echo. Somewhere deep in the collective subconscious, the song stirs up memories of a Golden Age, before the promises were broken, when they still glistened in their shiny packaging awaiting greedy rending fingers. How they worshiped their god, believing him to be a new Prometheus, only to be disappointed by the devouring tyranny of Kronos wearing the Fleece. They didn't know any better. Drunk on nectar they hardly realized when the ambrosia began to taste of human flesh.
Demeter cries "Where has my baby gone?" They force the seeds of diabolic science down her throat, and there is no coming back from this hell. Like Eurydice she will exist only as a backward glance, fading from memory once in focus, forever lost.
Cyclops, bastard sons of Posiedon, god of the sea, lumber in their doomed stupor, rejected by both words, fit only to stoke the forges of their masters. The flame must never be extinguished. As long as there is a single yellow eye alight upon it, it never shall. Rest peacefully in your nightmares, citizens.
He comes, a foreign Odysseus, cast into a sea of monsters. Behold men turned to beasts. Harken to the sirens call. Can mortal man resists such temptations or shall he too become tainted? Will the god at last be outdone by his own blood? So goes most epics sung across the pages of history.
Brace yourselves.