Cancer of a concept. My thoughts; a eulogy.
Leech in my lungs I can't exhale.
Answers out of fear.
Better a hole in my head than this nihilism.
Colors bleed, the charm of death.
Drenched in filth, inherent grief.
Afraid of the curtains, but I pull them shut.
Did the clouds pollute my mind?
Hollowed out, dreadful, numb.
Pain of life, helplessness of death.
Void of value.
Just picturing the basement dwelling losers standing around in a shitty club with like 12 people pretending that they are artistic geniuses because they make tapes. Basically the worst tendencies in modern noise all compounded into one sound. Then again; most noise is terrible. I mean how much of it do we really need? Damn sorry for being such a bummer. Adam Lehrer/Safety Propganda