Hollow be thy name, so we lick the night and crash brain-first into the nihil, lavishing in the wonder of its cradle-like void while never once falling to our knees unless to vomit. In the dark we find the light promised only in apathetic death, an altar of life tangled between the anxious drone and primal bliss. The stain of a rotten delusion reveals the burden of reality, a cavern of subterranean truth that reeks of stale cigarettes. Lower thine head, and raise it up. Immaculately conceived grief scrawled by hands with dirty fingernails; morality purchased in packs of thirty. We apostles of black noise, sonic monoliths, and bad breath, peace may be with you. Descend into hell. On the third day rise and find your dinner has burned. A mirror is the only story you can change, so crack it and for seven years bleed for the sins of no one but yourself. On earth, as it is.
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