PLOT
The Flesh Between My Existence Is Torn As I Claw Towards My Distant Faith Upon It’s Thorned Throne. My Unheard Cries Trickle Their Resentment Upon The Holy Scriptures Of Condemnation. Dreams Of Submerged Shrines Of Innocence Defiled By Nightmarish Psychiatry, Syllables Of Their Mass Cult Present Themselves As Inscriptions On The Nakedness Of Suspicion.