The killing, it's in the blood. He can taste it even before it leaves the bodies. The pomegranate stains cover his fingers, clawing it's way up the forearms. This knife has become nought but an extension of him. It spills what it must, this fine metal thing, and waters the earth with that dark stain of man. He was born to make corpses, to create a wine-colored chaos in the rooms of white satin.

26 tracks