Photo by Yoshi Cooper.
Deadmos by The World That Summer
We can’t stand in foreign aggregates like bodies dumped in a landfill. Instead impale on this spear of heads and rip all your dreams from your fucking corpse. Ice age looms, we’re shitting war forever. Why not run? We’re coming in and we shall fear nothing. All our weddings are slaughters and there’s this burning inside my brain. It’s cutting in. It’s cutting. Now we’re running in and we’re bearing such an absolution emblazened across our hearts. All our weddings are slaughters like knives across our necks. I’ll make it mine, for it’s culture. And once more, this stance is vital. Entire islands sink in distance. Drown your own home.