© MMXVII A.N.E.
That deprivation magnet attracting a black metal shithole, vacuuming away any emotions, absorbing all light, heavy with rain depression, yet feeble and shallow, a wet, cold grave. Endlessly refraining from purpose:
That draugr lich spirit, vampire warlock, necromantic shadow knight, wichsender Wiedergænger, voodoo death ritual drenched in coke saturated chicken blood, oh sick with sin:
That perpetuum mobile running on pain, dump for problementions and psychick emogick, ever since. That crossroad leading in four different wrong directions, deathtrap by nature, selected sentence by determinate choice:
That stray bitch nagging and yelling, moaning and bellowing, those bleeding entrails like clickbait for their goddess cunt. Dwelling. Certainly thriving. Lurking. Smiling. Those teeth, oh my, those festering fangs:
Mors redemptrix, mors moro. Der Tod ist dem Leben sein Segen. Born to fail, and a priori frail. Life’s orgasm, if you will. Narcissistic Lustmord:
Min død. Hurra, døden min!