defiled & left to wither

Four blades coming down upon the spine of the real, the fertile decomposition leaking / breeding / dribbling from the wounds, world-spiders forcing their way through the twitching meat, fauna screaming its own expiration swarming noises sullen noises wet noises electriiiiiiiiiiiIIIICkkkSSSS noiseS. four plagues four slugs four plague-slugs softly softly softly flooding over your carcasses The raw / rabid / hypnagogic / larval Black Ambient of izprijenostь The diseased bruitist anti-music of Sir Kuliktavikt and ThEsE 2 OthHhHERR vaguely-sonic entities (that will remain unknown forevermore) whose very existence remains a matter of the foulest superstition. no songs here perhaps no sound perhaps only the wet machinery beneath things only the cavity left when reality has finished eating itself COME tear the bark from the dead worlds peel peel peel peel until there is no underneath and drink straight from the ruptured eye of the treetops. DRINK UNTIL THE SKY IS HOLLOW. -Sir Kuliktavikt