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
I try, but I get no response.
I beg for God to rid this pain.
An affidavit to my own well-being that may never be answered.
If not for me, then for that who I’ve brought into this world, 18 years ago.
The only thing that keeps me in contentment to this day.
I am not worthy of such a selfish request otherwise, to benefit my life to serve my selfish comfort.
A trudge worth marching.
I want you in my life.
Please respond, I need you.
With palms clasped shut and eyes sealed closed, I beg for God to rid this pain.
A deafening silence consumes me, it engulfs me.
This silence consumes me.
I beg for God to rid this pain, I beg for your divinity.
I want, I need you.
I’m left cold, numb, hanged to dry.
I see no light, no miracles, no salvation.
Why do I get no answer? I believe in you, I repent, I love you.
Please respond.
supported by 32 fans who also own “Please Respond”
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 “Please Respond”
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