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Lurking Fear (with The Body from You, Whom I Have Always Hated)

Stooped beneath the weight of age. Thralls to antiquity. Tempered by furies. Catechism of violence. Supremacy restored. Transcend the ruins. The guilt permeates all. Laws of the father observed by the son. Henchman to the endless reconstruction. The guilt permeates all. For I am him, and he is me, unto the end of time.

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The Devils of Trust Steal the Souls of the Free (with The Body from You, Whom I Have Always Hated)

Harbor the fundamental secret locked within the vault of longing. Yearning, ever yearning, for the emblems of desire. Solemn is the mood subdued in its own pathos. Retreat inside the eye. Those nebulous bonds, chords forged through all the years, have grown insubstantial. Ethereal symphony lost. Solemn is the mood subdued in its own pathos. Retreat inside the eye. Reach out and find nothing.

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Beyond the Realms of Dream, That Fleeting Shade Under the Corpus of Vanity (with The Body from You, Whom I Have Always Hated)

To flee this aethyr, dead and accursed, realm of constant torture. Tearing away this veil of ignorance, surpass the boundaries of the flame. Tenuous ego, that feeble brace, endless well of disappointment. Life, and the lustre that consumes it, is the extinguished flame burning secretly as in the furnace from these dark eyes alone. By solemn vision,

bright silver dream, infancy nurtured, constructs the form. Every sight, every sound, creates the impulse, distorts the dream. That solemn vision dried upon our thirsting lips. And we are hung, shapeless bone decayed within the withered skin.

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Her Strongholds Unvanquishable (with The Body from You, Whom I Have Always Hated)

Maelström of passions in that hidden sea summons the vortex to annul all those hexes, those incantations. Creations undone. Involuntary, unrequested conclusions cast to subsume the self. Immersed in darkness. Creations undone. Simulacrum raised to the heights. Glamours beset in its construction. Feckless deceptions, enchantments crumble. All dissolves in the void of perception. Glamours beset in its construction. Decrepit illusions. All dissolves in the void of perception. Immersed in darkness. Creations undone.

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Terrible Lie (with The Body from You, Whom I Have Always Hated) - originally by Nine Inch Nails

Why are you doing this to me? Am I not living up to what I'm supposed to be. Why am I seething with this animosity? I think you owe me a great, big apology. I really don't know what you mean. Feels like salvation comes only in our dreams. I feel my hatred grow all the more extreme. Can this world really be as sad as it seems? Don't take it away from me, I need someone to hold on to. Don't take it away from me, I need you to hold on to. There's nothing left for me to hide. I lost my ignorance, security, and pride. I'm all alone in this world, you must despise. I need your promises, your promises and lies. You made me throw it all away, my morals left to decay. How many have you betrayed? You've taken everything. My head is filled with disease. My skin is begging you please. I'm on my hands and knees. I want so much to believe.

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Spin the Black Circle (Only You Deserve Conceit) - originally by Pearl Jam

See this needle. See my hand drop, drop, dropping it down, oh, so gently. Well here it comes. I touch the plane. Turn me up. Won't turn you away. Spin, spin. Spin the black circle. Pull it out a paper sleeve. Oh, my joy! Only you deserve conceit. I'm so big, a-my whole world. I'd rather you, rather you than her. Spin, spin. Spin the black circle. You're so warm. Oh, the ritual when I lay down your crooked arm. Spin, spin. Spin the black circle.

The Mystery of Contradictions (I Hate Thou b/w Eyehatethou)

Our mistake was in seeking resolution. Our mistake was in the acknowledgement of any argument. In the confusion and chaos of his thoughts, he is terrified by silence. And by silence can he be brought to obey. In his speech there is the illusion of some grand quest, the lie that because he is himself, therefore he is no self; the blindness of night, the deafness of the adder, the tastelessness of stale and filthy water, the udders of the Cat of slime; not one thing, but many things. Of course this is merely thinly-veiled vanity. We are not confronted with the righteous esoteric, nor a dispute of true and faithful relation. This is not the death of ego but ego incarnate, ego in it's blandest, most obnoxious form: the banal thug, the maladjusted man-child, the semi-educated neanderthal. Not one thing, but many things. Woe, woe, woe, threefold to him that is led away by talk. It is time now to be silent. Your most humble and obedient servant...

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A Prayer to God (To the Furnace Where I'll Break You) - originally by Shellac

To the one true god above, here is my prayer. Not the first you've heard, but the first I ever wrote. (Not the first but the others were a long time ago.) There are two people here, and I want you to kill them. Her, she can go quietly by disease or a blow to the base of her neck wear her necklaces close, where her garments come together, where I used to lay my face. That's where you ought to kill her, in that particular place. Him, just fucking kill him. I don't care if it hurts. Yes, I do. I want it to. Fucking kill him, but first make him cry like a women (no particular women). Make hold out, hope that someone or other might. Then fucking kill him, fucking kill him kill him already, kill him. Fucking kill him, fucking kill him, kill him already, kill him. Fucking kill him, fucking kill him, kill him already, kill him. Just fucking kill him! Fucking kill him, fucking kill him already, kill him. Ah Fucking kill him, fucking kill him, kill him already, kill him. Kill him already, kill him already. Kill him, fucking kill him. Just fucking kill him, fuckin kill him, kill him already, kill him. Fuckin kill him, kill him, fucking kill him already, kill him. Kill him, fucking kill him, kill him, just fucking kill him. Kill them already, kill them already, kill him. Amen.

Take Off Your Skin and Dance in Your Bones | Clarity | Dawn (Heathen)

T'ain't no sin to take off your skin and dance around in your bones.

Manifest Alchemy (with The Body from Released from Love)

Wandering steps, obedient to high thoughts. Awful ruins of the days of old. Progeny enslaved to all its authors' flaws. Are we but warped extensions? We have the power to begin again, untarnished world at hand. Recognize the open horizon, a consciousness that reaches all. We have opened the secret passage into the dream that never ends, a new reality of our own creation, an empire without end. Released from guilt, released from pain, released from love, released from trust: We are anointed in the sacred power; we are enshrined in ourselves.

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In Meetings Hearts Beat Closer (with The Body from Released from Love)

Born from a dream to create a reality, we are absolved of effete morality. And through deliberate transgression is hallowed essence revealed. The destruction of purity, the destruction of worthlessness, though mighty and glorious and terrible, is but the pennon upon the sacred lance of the Will. It is written in the Book of the Law that this deep, mysterious secret is a sacrament of the Will, and to profane it is the greatest offense. The shocking evils which we all deplore are principally due to the perversions produced by suppressions. Ennobling presence exposes my weakness. And we expire in boundless bliss. All and None in One.

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The Wheel Weaves as the Wheel Wills (with The Body from Released from Love)

Life has meaning. Pain has meaning. Through stripes and shame; through tears and blood; through doubts and fears, and all that makes the difference: I see an end.

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Coward (with The Body from Released from Love) - originally by Vic Chesnutt

The courage of the coward is greater than all others. A scaredy cat'll scratch you if you back him in a corner. But I am a coward. Courage born of despair and impotence. Submissive dogs can lash out in fear and be very, very dangerous. But I am a coward.

Oh, constant, unending Pain, my surest, truest friend. Agony, blessed Agony, your ever-present ache identifies unyielding vitality. That sharply labored breath is respiration (fully) experienced. Those overwhelming burdens grant me immune to senseless distraction, grounding me in the present. Oh, merciless teacher. Spread your harshest wounds across the soil of my figure. Find root in my skin and nerves and veins. Killing fields to blanket and smother withering pleasure that waxes and wanes. Thine are the lidless eyes of night that stare upon my tears. Thine is the thickness of the dark that presses in my anguish. Rejoice in the miseries of life unkind. Here, and only here, are the senses stretched and contracted, hone them to their prime strength, to primal vigor. Seek comfort in endurance. Be consumed by struggle. Lasting wisdom only exists in the abandoned fields, in the dusty swamp, on the burnt out plains, on the desolate hillside.

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New Orleans is a Hole (The Sacrifice)

Decadence is restrained and smothered by the strictest codes of conduct. And you'll writhe naked upon the sands as the sun flays every inch of skin which is then assaulted and hacked away by the scorching, barren wind of empty breath. You wail and pray and grovel on your knees for a drop of water, just a bit of substance. Instead, you must sustain yourself on the scraps of idleness, or gorge yourself on the incessant corruption and muck of indifference. Excessiveness is a virtue. Debasement is a virtue. This is the birthplace of Saint I-Don't-Care. The patron saint of extravagant waste and crippling depression. Enjoy the masquerade of dark, bitter smiles of those too senseless to notice the uncanny resemblance: uptight aristocrat, lackadaisical vagabond. Different uniforms for the same subservient fuck.

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I Hate Myself and I Want to Die (The Sacrifice) - originally by Nirvana

Runny nose and runny yolk even if you have a cold still. You can cough on me again. I still haven't had my full fill. In the someday what's that sound? Broken heart and broken bones, thinking about some capsules of horse pills. One more quirky cliche'd phrase. You're the one I wanna refill. In the someday what's that sound?

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Immorality Dictates (Heathen)

We scorn the domesticated scholars in their unblemished, halcyon temples, isolated and confined in prisons of theory and vague conjecture. Tempers violent. Passions vehement. Uncaged and unburdened, we now see clearly. Only amidst the sea of refuse shall we find enlightenment pure. To be righteous we must be consumed by the most profane. And so we shall descend into the very bowels of physical consumption. Desperately searching eyes are blinded by the wild joys of boundless pleasure, writhing in the excrement of unfettered appetite. We revel in ecstasy of gratification, the union of opposites, the union of sames. Mask kissing mask, image caressing image, in the sty of self-absorbed enchantment. We are unruly beasts driven by desire. And we delight in our filth. We glory in the visceral, wholly-felt, wholly-witnessed. We relish unfeeling, all-feeling detachment. And you know that I love you. Here and now, not forever. I can give you the present. I don't know about the future.

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Eulogy (The Sacrifice)

Drink deep of your mortality. Accept the blueprint for non-achievement, the well-tread path of capitulation. Bury the suffering and ecstasies. When will the old gods be avenged? Extol a life of compromise. Resigned to quiet submission. When will the old gods be avenged? Welcome boredom and banal normality. Farewell to joy and laughter and trust. Welcome fear, suspicion, and hatred. There is the stench of the gathering of flies. You have the look of a strangled child. You have the look of a hollow shell. You have the look of a rotting corpse. Entombed under intolerable weight, in the delusions of wish fulfillment. Escape the standards of youth. Find sanctuary in a cringing half-life. It's called moving on. It's called growing up. It's called giving up. Lurking in the shadow of your past, lurking in the blackness of acquiescence, pathetic acceptance.

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Pill (The Sacrifice)

Vacant eyes meet vacant eyes meet vacant eyes meet vacant eyes. Can there be more? There must be more. Reach inside. Deep inside. Fingers run over the lying tongue, down the throat, probing deeper and deeper and deeper. Grasp the writhing truth. Purged. Insubstantial blame. Purged. Inconsequential anger. Purposeless discourse. And now a promise of benevolent malice. A promise of impending violence to you, my friend. This is a promise to you, my friend.

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At the Foot of Mount Driskill (Heathen)

We are but antlings, vain in our assumptions. We would presume to grasp at the unfathomable. We would presume to dress it as man, to give it names, to speak its intention. Yet we are humbled beneath the shadow of true greatness. Now the earth crest rises to meet our gaze. We are but fleas. We are but lice. We are nothing. Insignificant. Dust motes blown away by the breath of time. Vague memories of no consequence. Vanquished are the fires in the eyes of the friends I knew. Just as they are deafened to my wasted breath. Each one more wasted than the others you can bet. Now I see through the illusion of permanence. I am diminished in the presence of vastness. Useless are my tools of science, of religion. There is no understanding of limitless power. We are at peace in our minor, subordinate role. Accept our frail, short lives.