Lips and eyes are air and light.
Negatives filled with night.
In long limb he comes.
His hands full of a space where there should be a knife.
So I will turn to my pale neighbor and he will give me an ending.
and I will die without grace
no ghosts of memory
no pale recollection of what once was a face
how did this story get so strange.
I will bleed for a whisper of prophecy.
they will crash cars into me.
they will open negative stars in me.
So I will turn to my pale neighbor, and he will give me anti-light
and i will die in the shade of his negative sight
no spectre of flesh
no frame of bone
to the night i am nothing
to the day i’m unknown
they will torture my shade.
I am drawn in thick lines.
I am heavy, and dumb with my pale throat defined.
from beneath the hedge.
from outside the light.
turning the corner kills me every time.
i turn to my pale neighbor and i am filled with anti blood
i am unborn
i am unmourned
i am less than the shadow of the lowliest stone
to the night i am nothing
to the day i’m unknown
Vocals: haunted, and subversive. Guitars: splintered shrieks. Drum machine: grim, unrelenting nausea. Visceral noise, with a hook that gets stuck in in your throat. Just try spitting them out. Stranger Killings
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