Your skin is covered with a pattern of accurate thin cuts. It breathes by them and in exchange it’s giving blood and life. The edge slides on the flesh with extraordinary ease, Opens it, goes deep, smoothly gets round the main arteries. You have to pass purification by the pain Cleaning you until the death.
The fateful akinesia has already broken you. You are just pure canvas for the sharp knifelooking brush. The masterpiece will be created, Repeal is not allowed.
Your thoughts force edges to live. You give the final touch to the last paint. In which there is no place for the richness of the palette.
Blood runs... Cuts are the only source of color for now.
Having process once stopped you understood It is not in your power to refuse that. The drill starts biting into the core of your backbone, Letting know that term of execution is your choice. Choice… You have no choice…
Continue giving mental commands to the shrill darkness stinging the body drawing terrible indistinct images. The painting will be completed when the thousandth cut has dissected the flesh opening the gate to the life stream. You’ve got the chance to receive the maximum dose of unspeakable pain. The last injection of the universal horror.
Which won’t be forgotten even after the death. The art is awful in its beauty and ruthless in its greatness.
Without fear you’ll release the life.
The only one step to eternity. You are ready and looking forward to... The slowing-down pulse gives the countdown: Ictus, one more and … blissful silence …Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
