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The colossal "Requiem - Mezzo Forte" by the Australian Virgin Black had literally enchanted me, with its imposing and dense gothicness tinged with long martyrdoms of strings, choirs, sopranos, and tenors, obviously in the shadow of a solid doom matrix. Discover the review
The colossal "Requiem - Mezzo Forte" by the Australian Virgin Black had literally enchanted me, with its imposing and dense gothicness tinged with long martyrdoms of strings, choirs, sopranos, and tenors, obviously in the shadow of a solid doom matrix.
a funerary masterpiece of titanic proportions, destined for a few. Discover the review
a funerary masterpiece of titanic proportions, destined for a few.
"Jesus is dying in my bed companion since birth in this estranging dirty lair, he never really lived, last night I beat Him as He would not let, my crazy old eye to Him as his scourged bloodstained body, I often rape him like nothing else. He curly like a fetus and paints his face with sadness now a fragment of remorse has incised, bandages his wounds, I kiss the face of Jesus Christ, but He is dead what can I do? He abandoned me, called mass, waits for me to follow him but now He is dead and with Him his prophecies, I bury Him not as an insult to your face as his corpse particularly despairs me, his cold rigid finger points where I have not been... from my house, a cage of rotten wood stumble away to place under the bush the bones moan, till the soil and grow closer the sun receives a blank stare, that cries knows my life is gone I have nothing more to offer but my flesh for this soil, and a single tear marks my final prayer, rosebud sits in the palm of your hand like a flower," Discover the review
"Jesus is dying in my bed companion since birth in this estranging dirty lair, he never really lived, last night I beat Him as He would not let, my crazy old eye to Him as his scourged bloodstained body, I often rape him like nothing else. He curly like a fetus and paints his face with sadness now a fragment of remorse has incised, bandages his wounds, I kiss the face of Jesus Christ, but He is dead what can I do? He abandoned me, called mass, waits for me to follow him but now He is dead and with Him his prophecies, I bury Him not as an insult to your face as his corpse particularly despairs me, his cold rigid finger points where I have not been... from my house, a cage of rotten wood stumble away to place under the bush the bones moan, till the soil and grow closer the sun receives a blank stare, that cries knows my life is gone I have nothing more to offer but my flesh for this soil, and a single tear marks my final prayer, rosebud sits in the palm of your hand like a flower,"
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