You make the sacrifice at the altar and pull the guts out of the beast and just sit there, alone in the sterility of your temple and stare - just stare - into the bloody guts, the tessellated guts. And then because some fool priest told you there is meaning in those guts, you look for it. You look for it because it's supposed to be there. You try to divine fortune from these guts because it is so hard to live with the nothingness of unmeaning, but the thing you will never see in the guts is that there is no life in them anymore. They have ceased to work. They have ceased to mean. They have ceased to be. Such darkness becomes warm.