shadow of locust this is at least the slow descent of autumn into the butcher garden
black sun dying black sun rising is this impure is this impure?
children, it's midnight it's time, we've come hand in hand on earth, in hell sick or well we're bleeding - all over - the world you and me on land and sea in life, in dreams or, so it seems new beginnings new ends it's obvious it's him the deafening beautiful silence... of sin!