Agony, we know you. Martikor know you too. They're skewered in the same sludge-blackened-death-doomed-dissonant-melodic hell where we reside, thrive, rage. Pleasure and pain, riffs and screams, torment and crooning trauma. In these catastrophic paeans I feel familiar tendons tense, those ligaments of woe that Layne Staley dug from the Dirt in 1992. Eclectic weapons of wretchedness, landslides of droning torment. Throw some brooding Thou on the vibe-pyre. Probably shouldn't be consumed with alcohol. Oops. Acedia by Martikor
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