Silent scream of a razor blade slashing a slit in my wrist. Gaping gash spills quarts of blood down into my clenched fist. Head is clouded with tortured patters hallucinating my torrid fate. The gory appendage is not my own. A telekinetic servant ordered to possess this mass of flesh and bone. A geist who creeps inside weak souls and distorts images of tales to be told. A paranoia spinal tap has left me staring at bloody wrist skin flaps. Upon exit of mortal being, the loser in awe of what he's seeing, pools of blood two inches thick, at his feet lies his severed dick. (One more victim of a slit wrist has been added to depression's casualty list.)Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
