Walk a thousand miles in my shoes, punk. This is no fashion contest. Hate. Loathe. Despair. Ain’t no parade this fucking thing. I need a drink. I need to put something in my blood. Shit. I was never good at this, at living, and the world… I’m a lone beast. Drunk. Betrayed and a traitor myself. A dealer’s dream, a father’s nightmare, someone who would have absolutely no one to write to if I was dying everyday in a war trench.
The intro is done. Feedback. Listen to it. Listen to both.
March 7. Black Reaper. Dry Cough.
March 4. Halo Of Flies.