Afterhours…
They are gone, she is gone, the light is gone and you are left alone with that murderous instrument…
Your brain.
Your sweat pours out onto the bed while, like a hammer on an anvil, The Rhythm Of The Heat draws aside the thin veil of black.
In shades of gray and blood, your closed eyes look helplessly across dreary cities, maddening plains and Hollow Hills.
In an attempt to regain your corporeal self, you glance down to find a Red Right Hand, a red light from the brain telling you that your tricks are useless and you are helpless. You are a prisoner to this vision just as the soul is inside your meat…
Attention must be paid.
You see this world slide into a greasy smear, and as you sicken, an ebony citadel swims into view…
You stand At The Gates Of Silent Memory and though all is quiet, you feel the throngs of Dead Souls howling and yammering in voices stolen by rot and time.
Just as you are sure you can stand no more, the ocean of dead burst through the portcullis, drawn from The Crypt by your fear and labored breath, and with their dead voices, engulf you in the sorrowful Song to the Siren.
The airy and shrill Ghost Sound is freezing your soul and slowing your heart…
O Death, I am learning the words!
WHAM
You are wrenched from your hour of hell and stifling Fear Of Ghosts to the sound of The World Encyclopedia Of Twentieth Century Murder falling from the shelf to the floor, and the infinitesimal chill of the temperature dropping to ninety…
just an hour of your weekend sound track
back~forth