(no subject)
Cracked picture frames, bloody walls, cobwebs and torn paper. Gouged. Stolen trophies and fragmented air, dusty with coal-soaked sweat and regret. A thousand deaths of a thousand dreams, consumption bitten with icy thoughts of forgotten reveries. No life could exist here save that of the king Himself, the lord of this dead and damned universe, collapsed and confined to this cramped and filthy wasteland of self-loathing arrogance.
The air corrupts pure lungs, the darkness is impenetrable, the crown of this God fused to His skull and crafted from congealed intoxicants and concealed suffering.
Pull the plug on this King and pull the plug on his Kingdom. It is a blight unto existence and a blight unto itself.
The air corrupts pure lungs, the darkness is impenetrable, the crown of this God fused to His skull and crafted from congealed intoxicants and concealed suffering.
Pull the plug on this King and pull the plug on his Kingdom. It is a blight unto existence and a blight unto itself.