Next Level Apparel, 100% cotton, fitted T-shirt. White ink on black shirt.
Includes unlimited streaming of Malady's Black Maw
via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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lyrics
After 2 years of what I already thought could be the lowest my life can get, he won’t respond to me.
I reach out, with open arms, but just like prayer, I get no answer.
I know you blame me for your loss, our loss.
I don’t understand why, but I already accept it.
My pain is like a cancer in metastasis, spreading throughout me further with each passing day.
I am a prisoner of my own mind.
My thoughts racing a mile a second.
I am shaken and on the edge.
Constantly anxious and constantly sick.
I am a hollow, vestigial remnant of my former self.
Wallowing in a pool of vomit.
I function on prescribed chemicals, I’m hardly even human.
How can my son even accept me, a drone mentally enslaved by a daily capsule.
Wallowing in misery.
I don’t want this, my life. All I want is you.
supported by 32 fans who also own “I Don't Want This”
Hearing the songs while reading the narrative behind the lyrics, I felt overwhelmed by this tragic story in which humans and artificial intelligence couldn't coexist side by side. Their reciprocal annihilation was inevitable. Except one "sole survivor, in a ship filled with memories. She had become the proof of Earth, proof that life had existed there, a voice for all the species and beauty we once knew". A dystopian concept dressed up in brilliant musicianship! @Slevin, thanks, I owe it to you! Umbra Cornuta
supported by 32 fans who also own “I Don't Want This”
On ne frappe pas un homme à terre : c'est ce que dit la règle mais NONE a déjà prouvé qu'il ne les suivait pas et si son album éponyme retirait toute perspective de béatitude spirituelle, Life has gone on long enough, son deuxième opus, nous interdit l'accès au bonheur terrestre. La vie n'a aucune substance et la production plus distante le confirme. Le DSBM s'empare de textures sonores blues, mettant en relief une dépression urbaine. Les cris partent en fumées : ne restent que les pleurs... Jordan Vauvert