Meaningless Cycles in a Vicious Glass Prison: Songs of Death and Love

We Live.

We Die.

About a week later, we get back up and start tearing the flesh of of whoever is most convenient to fill the emptiness in our bacteria-bloated corpses that is most definitely not a metaphor of our desperate search for connection in this hopeless slog of repetitive day to day existence.

Sometimes, there’s sex and/or blood.

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We Live.

We Die.

About a week later, we get back up and start tearing the flesh of of whoever is most convenient to fill the emptiness in our bacteria-bloated corpses that is most definitely not a metaphor of our desperate search for connection in this hopeless slog of repetitive day to day existence.

Sometimes, there’s sex and/or blood.

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