Dead to a Dying World
Litany

The girl couldn't see the man's eyes, covered as they were by the glass lens of the camera, nor did she perceive his tremors of passion. She failed to glimpse the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead, as it was covered by the black tarp of the equipment. Yet, that man, that skeletal figure whom her family had contacted for the customary photos as the age of her societal debut approached, that man suffered the torments of hell every time the girl smiled at the camera, every time she posed, every time she held her breath (thanks to that tight corset) to appear more beautiful in the photos, as if that were even necessary!
However, that day seemed different: after the last photo, the young woman seemed almost to smile at him, she seemed almost to have noticed that the heartbeat of that figure quickened with every flutter of her lashes, she seemed closer to him, in short. After bidding farewell to the girl and her parents, the man left their house when the light of the oil lamps had been on for some hours, and on the streets of the city, the elegant and respectable people were unknowingly being replaced by the less conspicuous but undoubtedly more numerous population, the paupers, the beggars, the prostitutes. The man took a few steps but then stopped because a voice had called him: "wait!" the girl had shouted, and when he turned, he saw her running towards him, but it was an egotistical and dreamer's notion of his. The girl brushed past him and moved on to embrace a young man walking in the opposite direction: her beau, handsome, elegant, in a long coat, was coming to see her, and he, the poor walking skeleton, was merely an obstacle between the two, an unnoticed shadow.
Defeated, dejected, he retreated to his home, into his darkroom, where he developed the photos taken. He held the most beautiful one close to his heart, took it into a small room, lit a small lamp, and immediately colored an altar entirely sprinkled with photos of the young woman, hair bows, nearly empty perfume bottles, handkerchiefs... He worshipped her like a goddess, hoping that one day she would notice him, but that day would never come, he was now certain of it.
With a decisive blow of the tripod of the camera, placed nearby, he destroyed that little altar; he struck the gas lamp and set the photos and various mementos on fire, then grabbed a piece of glass and with a sharp blow, severed a wrist: what was the point of living now? Filled as he was with rage, it did not occur to him to entrust his last words to any god, but he cursed with all his being the girl, her beauty, and her heart.
The hut took little time to burn, but the guards were surprised that, after the fire was out, no remains were found. The girl, on the other hand, was not surprised; in fact, not seeing the photographer cross her doorstep as usual, she informed her parents to find another one since the party for her social debut was approaching and publications needed to be made.
She was seated in front of her mirror, brushing her hair, and so engrossed was she in the emptiness of her thoughts that she didn't even notice a shadow that had sinisterly fallen over her: when she felt the coldness of the knife cutting her throat, it was too late, and only as she forever lost her senses did she glimpse that shadow, which reminded her of someone she had perhaps encountered once in her life, someone skeletal, thin, terribly insignificant.

I don't even remember how I stumbled upon Dead to a Dying World, but it was a truly fortunate encounter. In an autumn where I seemed to find no particular satisfaction in any listen, at a time when the releases I most eagerly awaited ended up leaving a bitter taste in my mouth (except in rare cases), in a moment of stagnancy, these Texans popped up to shake up my day. Understanding what they offer is complicated: their sound is wavering, born from the urgency typical of crust and post-hardcore combined with the fury of black metal that often extends into epic, breath-taking rides typical of post-metal/post-rock, which crash into doom slowdowns only to rise again in intensity. Clean vocals (few, but when present they literally give you chills), scream and growl alternate in the singing, in a truly engaging sonic pandemonium. Any reference groups? I'll directly cite the label, Alerta Antifascista Records: draw your own conclusions, just know that these artists fit perfectly within the typical canons of this label's roster. There is also, lo and behold, some wave influence: in calm moments, you might even hear echoes of Dead Can Dance.
"Litany" is imbued with a sense of epic despair, ruin, imminent apocalypse, there is a rage that twists upon itself, that sees the light only for a moment only to plunge back into deep despair. There's none of the deified nature of Cascadian artists, their ritualistic and cathartic sense (even though that drum during moments when it seems to "roll" with the typically "Cult of Luna" sound is very hypnotic); the urban and post-punk decay of many post-black groups is absent, as is the sadness and self-contained melancholy. Here, as said, the titanic despair reigns supreme, a sense of loss I’ve perhaps only perceived with Dying Sun.
In short, listen to it, and you'll understand for yourself what I fail to convey in words: just a listen to "The Hunt Eternal" and everything will become clear.
Worth trying!