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 ReaperDry Cough.

March 4. Halo Of Flies.