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1. |
Sentence (part i)
05:36
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and this sound, this sound, this plane of the pure thought, the one wrenched with overturned gateways, it's mirror eyes glaring until one can only rain, and drip along until the night utters forth, while you stole it all before; and the thought that this was just a pendant, a gift, a lock for the insane as the journey penetrates the physique with much that doesn't exist, as the essence gropes to know the mind, turning corners before their construction, so one can scission these like a wheel, these planes and sights and never-was lifting the plight of the fall, as they watch, as they watch and remember she, and the talisman pillar of a text that one could live in; climbing words like stars around a dirty, clear background stark, descending and entwining amidst the lines thick with imagery myriad, falling down through paragraphs when the page turns itself, we will end, we will end, as the map turns back into the beginning, but you'd thought you'd seen this all before, this sound, this sound, as the desperate know the realms, mindfuck and whispering with the canticle lost and red, and as you dream, as you dream, kiss the hate with fingernails wrapped in branches of the flight, numbers and figments slippery like shears, knifing away the mirage infinite as if with some motion of belonging, the blood dressed looking glass seeing nothing but the ocean, with the looking sliding past, the glass drifts more into the blood, into eyes, into blood, into she, without blood, without fright, without end, without blood, as the past becomes what you never knew before, the moment telling tales so the memory sees anew, and the dust invokes vacancy, a dionysian invitation before the night comes riding horns and feathers and things left best unsaid, the prayer alive with forefingers and an upside down crucifix, penetrating a void where lies are truth and truth is unseen, watching in your sleep for the canopy to burst and the room to enclose, because there is no answer and it's cold where fires are lit and this sound, this sound, a requiem regret for that which you thought could not die, and they shimmer, and they whisper, and that blood – letting in the reflection sees you are what you fear, what you fear, the existing, what you fear, the calling, what you reap, the séance prying of the absolute nothing, a fool reaper wandering in the sand, as that sound prevents sleep, and you knew you'd seen it all before.
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2. |
Sentence (part ii)
06:54
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and this sound, this sound, this plane of the pure thought, the one wrenched with overturned gateways, it's mirror eyes glaring until one can only rain, and drip along until the night utters forth, while you stole it all before; and the thought that this was just a pendant, a gift, a lock for the insane as the journey penetrates the physique with much that doesn't exist, as the essence gropes to know the mind, turning corners before their construction, so one can scission these like a wheel, these planes and sights and never-was lifting the plight of the fall, as they watch, as they watch and remember she, and the talisman pillar of a text that one could live in; climbing words like stars around a dirty, clear background stark, descending and entwining amidst the lines thick with imagery myriad, falling down through paragraphs when the page turns itself, we will end, we will end, as the map turns back into the beginning, but you'd thought you'd seen this all before, this sound, this sound, as the desperate know the realms, mindfuck and whispering with the canticle lost and red, and as you dream, as you dream, kiss the hate with fingernails wrapped in branches of the flight, numbers and figments slippery like shears, knifing away the mirage infinite as if with some motion of belonging, the blood dressed looking glass seeing nothing but the ocean, with the looking sliding past, the glass drifts more into the blood, into eyes, into blood, into she, without blood, without fright, without end, without blood, as the past becomes what you never knew before, the moment telling tales so the memory sees anew, and the dust invokes vacancy, a dionysian invitation before the night comes riding horns and feathers and things left best unsaid, the prayer alive with forefingers and an upside down crucifix, penetrating a void where lies are truth and truth is unseen, watching in your sleep for the canopy to burst and the room to enclose, because there is no answer and it's cold where fires are lit and this sound, this sound, a requiem regret for that which you thought could not die, and they shimmer, and they whisper, and that blood – letting in the reflection sees you are what you fear, what you fear, the existing, what you fear, the calling, what you reap, the séance prying of the absolute nothing, a fool reaper wandering in the sand, as that sound prevents sleep, and you knew you'd seen it all before.
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3. |
Sentence (part iii)
06:26
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and this sound, this sound, this plane of the pure thought, the one wrenched with overturned gateways, it's mirror eyes glaring until one can only rain, and drip along until the night utters forth, while you stole it all before; and the thought that this was just a pendant, a gift, a lock for the insane as the journey penetrates the physique with much that doesn't exist, as the essence gropes to know the mind, turning corners before their construction, so one can scission these like a wheel, these planes and sights and never-was lifting the plight of the fall, as they watch, as they watch and remember she, and the talisman pillar of a text that one could live in; climbing words like stars around a dirty, clear background stark, descending and entwining amidst the lines thick with imagery myriad, falling down through paragraphs when the page turns itself, we will end, we will end, as the map turns back into the beginning, but you'd thought you'd seen this all before, this sound, this sound, as the desperate know the realms, mindfuck and whispering with the canticle lost and red, and as you dream, as you dream, kiss the hate with fingernails wrapped in branches of the flight, numbers and figments slippery like shears, knifing away the mirage infinite as if with some motion of belonging, the blood dressed looking glass seeing nothing but the ocean, with the looking sliding past, the glass drifts more into the blood, into eyes, into blood, into she, without blood, without fright, without end, without blood, as the past becomes what you never knew before, the moment telling tales so the memory sees anew, and the dust invokes vacancy, a dionysian invitation before the night comes riding horns and feathers and things left best unsaid, the prayer alive with forefingers and an upside down crucifix, penetrating a void where lies are truth and truth is unseen, watching in your sleep for the canopy to burst and the room to enclose, because there is no answer and it's cold where fires are lit and this sound, this sound, a requiem regret for that which you thought could not die, and they shimmer, and they whisper, and that blood – letting in the reflection sees you are what you fear, what you fear, the existing, what you fear, the calling, what you reap, the séance prying of the absolute nothing, a fool reaper wandering in the sand, as that sound prevents sleep, and you knew you'd seen it all before.
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4. |
Blood Milk
05:48
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