Water & Tools

Voyria

Fable of the Bees

Drone Day 2024

classic magic witch bitch

Ħal Saflieni

Treachery, Obsession and Embroidering Plots: The Plan, the Potion, the Prophesy

Drop Some Acid Onto the Candlelight When You're Unsure of Who's Who Amongst the Friends You've Proudly Left Behind

Unknown States of Preordained Melodic Vulnerability

Prophecies of Anticipation

Whenever the Pain of Forced Separation Hits Us Blind, We Become Helpless Like Rats in a Clean Kitchen

I Keep Getting Flashes of Splendor and Might From Your Eyes and I Wonder If It's Something in the Stars That Makes Me Feel So Mad... It All Comes Down to One Thing and One Thing Only: You're Like a Hypnotist, Who's Releasing My Woes and Worries Into Oblivion

Drowning in the Sweet Water of Sacrilegious Prayer

Watching Falling Atoms Surrounded by Parasite Galaxies, I Know the Angels Cannot Sing Anymore and It's Too Late to Turn Back Time and Stop This Race to Annihilation; Yet, I Don't Wish to Be Another Statistic in the Universe's Satanic Verses, So What Do I Do Now, Oh Lucifer?

My Day Job Pays Me Close to Nothing, So Don't Let Me Get Lost in This Blasphemous Chaos All Around Me; And When It's Tenebrous Again, We Still Prefer the Pseudo-Beauty of Zombifying Influencers and Spiritually-Anorexic Models Over the Beauty of Mind-Expanding Artworks and Holy Shrines Like Bandcamp

I Can See You Losing the Rat Race, I Can Hear the Silent Word You're Trying to Say and the Restless Wind Chases Your Fears Away; Sometimes I Feel So Lonesome I Wish I Was a Gulliver, Who Travels Into the Remote Nations of the World; And I Wish I Hadn't Ashamed Myself of the Pain We Feel When We Fail

The Darkest Guru's Funeral Doom Drones, Vol. 3

If We Were Made of Pure Poison, Then I'd Know That the Rain Will Somehow Bring You Back, but I Don't Quite Know Whether the Darkness Is a Game You Play or Is This Just a Song to Be Cried About?

I'm the Bastard Child of Holy Fires and Cigarette Smoke, One Who Does Not Need Troublemaking or Exclamation Birthmarks for Quality Time Self-Deification

Artist's Cutthroat Grip on His Daily Food for Thought

My Tongue Is Your Language, but I Don't Like It When You Praise Me, 'Cause Too Much Can Make You Want Me, and Too Little Can Make You Forget Me

Thunderclouds

distance ranging

The Cosmic Void