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History draws its substance from the archives of blood
Your blood
We're all gatecrashers to the apocalypse
We're all the gravediggers of the future
Each generation raises monuments
To the executioners which have preceded it
Man is just a prisoner of pathological drives
Uncontrollable compulsions morbid vertigo
An animal with retarded desires
Waiting for revelation by stupor
To fill that luminous absence
To heal the scars on the psychic fabric
Using auto intoxication where
The leeching of cyphers sucking on your void
The void
The dream of pain
Which has not yet come true

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