Twilight Zone

The masterpiece

2007-05-10T00:32:00.001+04:00

The greatest fuckin' song, that keeps me ecstatic for months already

Funeral For Femininity

2007-03-08T01:12:00.000+03:00

Optimistic. Enthusiastic. Driven to tears. Hysterical. Drunk. What a great scenario to what is counted to be an international holiday! But anyway - this is what is real. Without those phony "shopping holiday"-mood, without kissing everyone in the cheek for every fake smile and a couple of congrats that are said only because they should be said. I used to hate that all, and through all these years this hatred hasn't become weaker. Right the opposite.

I hate myself. I've never got it so clear. I hate myself because I love him that much, that I even shut up my pride to stay by his side. No one - never! - told me so many insulting, hurting and disrespectful things like he did. But still, I know for sure, he's the closest person to me. Ever. That's why I swallow this bitter liquid, only not to burst out crying. Even now, when he's spending his time somewhere with someone. Well, if he told me that he does all this only because of usual male jealousy, do I have this right to feel jealous?.. Or is that also only his right, the privilege of being the boss? OK, I'm bitter and sarcastic. But I need to say that.

March, 8th. International Women's day. A cabin in the night subway. A woman in front of me. Disillusioned, drunk - because everyone in her office was drinking, so she took her portion as well, - holding two roses in her wrinkled hands. Two roses. I don't know, maybe she, being drunk, has lost the third one, or just has taken the second flower for her absent colleague, who was absent and couldn't take it herself, - that's basically doesn't matter. The fact is that she's holding only two roses. Like for a funeral. And generally this is funeral. The funeral for femininity. Another couple right by her side. A girl with her paltry-looking miserable boyfriend. They're kissing, the girl is also drunk, and the guy is caressing his crotch while slavering her. And now you still ask me, why I hate this world that much?..

And now that. He led me directly to hysteria, and then told me that he loves me and cares. And it is my fucking fate to believe him, because he really deserves that. And even now, when I silently watch this promiscuity in a metro cabin, he's spending his time somewhere with someone. When I embrace that white rose he gave me as the present for a holiday. Along with the drinking glasses I also received from him - as he explained, to celebrate something with my further "wimpy flames". Enough said.

Maybe I'm chained to this emptiness. Nonexistence. Loneliness. Because I'm ready to forgive all his insults for one single embracement. Fuck. I hate myself.

Reminiscence

2006-12-16T02:32:00.000+03:00

Just came to mind. Hello Mr. Leonard Cohen...

...Through years it bears the trace of Inquisition,
Society I'm born and sold within...
And thus I'm never asking for permission
To take my own Manhattan and Berlin...

And more - also mine, but already a Russian translation of the original masterpiece...

Вердикт зачитан - четверть века скуки
За то, что против строя шел один.
Окончен срок. Я умываю руки.
Сперва возьмем Манхэттен, а затем Берлин.

Меня ведут вслепую голос свыше
И шрамы углубившихся морщин.
Но гул боев не стал с годами тише.
Сперва возьмем Манхэттен, а затем Берлин.

The Maker Of Victimized

2006-11-26T02:13:00.000+03:00

Frozen fogs of November are silently hanging between the dirt and that drained gas that once was called The Sky. Fast steps are getting stuck in the mud and turn into melancholic and lazy moving one leg after another. Here I am, slowly walking down this street of sick memories, where every object on my way is a memorial for a broken dream. And I know, that someone is watching me - again, as always. They always do, because when someone doesn't have his own life he tries to release his voyeurism, and I'm often the choice. I don't give a damn, what they want to see. Well, if you stare - then take me who I am, for granted. I'm not going to act for you. And if I behave filthy - oh, that's even better: I'm not gonna be another dolly monkey in a golden cage people love to judge and envy. Not gonna make a picturesque fairytale out of my existence. And finally not gonna decorate it for the watchers. Trashy, wasted, lost and found, with a screaming audio system at 4 a.m., twisted, alone, messy and wasted again. A sensitive loony. Not a lollipop celeb. I like to throw them into confusion with my way of living. That's not what they expect from me when they see me on the streets.

But these steps at the background sometimes make me think, that probably the only thing that is worth in this world - is that somewhere lives The One. The one I'm waiting for. The one who doesn't give a damn about who's lying next to me another bloody morning. And who is waiting for me, even though he himself still may be unaware of that. My killer. We wander like two bubbles of oxygene in the veins of this world, and I'm not sure about him, but I undeliberately look for him in everyone. I look for someone to victimize me, to cause me pain. And still this is not masochism. It's just a desperate try to check if I'm still able to feel. The Maker Of Victimized, is that you? Or maybe you are my tormentor? Why are you staring like that, finally do something! But you're too weak for action, yah. You can only gnaw me round with your eyes, and that's all. I know this kind of people. They are used to believing that a sexual partner is a device for masturbation. That thinking is freaky, and slavery is freedom.

So, go on, watch me, punch me, point your fat fingers at me - this is nothing, comparing to that mental devastation, reigning in my mind, because of being tired of waiting. For the Maker to come and make me feel...

Astray

2006-11-07T03:56:00.000+03:00

I just wonder why I always have to bury my deepest feelings in the past. Sometimes the choice is to kill or to be killed - in my case, to suffer or to bury the suffering. Along with dreams. Because they're just unseparable - I don't feel pain when it comes from something I don't cherish. And here - once again, putting one cross after another, trying to forget and not to give a damn. But that results only in sensual disorder and sexual conveyor - when I'm in the mood, I call it "rock'n'roll"... But these memories always come back, like ghosts return to the abandoned house they inhabited long ago. They surround me, and there's something like reproach and regret in their luminous eyes - and that causes real pain. When it starts to seem that these flashbacks are your real life, I begin thinking that there's just one step before I touch the wall of insanity.

I have to hold on anyway. But to keep this strength I should either live my dream, or kill it to get rid of those quicksilver reflections.

Numbing Futility

2006-11-01T01:15:00.000+03:00

Take a breath... and bury your feelings. If you want to survive and keep your sanity.

Undress Rehearsal

2006-10-12T01:45:00.000+04:00

Faded daylight. Freezing shivers down my spine. And me - mentally undressing here, among the neons and soffits; stripping my soul for I don't know what. Yes, I myself don't clearly understand why I'm doing this. Maybe because I'm drunk - just totally wasted, but still holding on to the undying ability to think, make decisions and analyse.

I don't want to be struck in the past. To live some several days again and again in my memory and close my eyes for the present. No. No! But everything within me screams that what I've done was the only right way to do - in every tiny detail. I'm so fuckin' honest towards myself now, that it even scares me.

Only today I've realized that then, in those four days it became clear to me, that something was wrong with that life I was used to. That something has changed. That it's just great to know that someone cares. That someone worries about you, supports you, helps you to carry something you would otherways never ask anyone to help with... And now it's definitely hard to return to that semi-automatic existence, that I previously counted to be my real life.

Yes, that was an adventure. The biggest one I ever taken. But the feedback of it is immense. Huge. Overwhelming. And now I know, that I needed that emotional rollercoaster, I've been longing for that, but the other part of my ego didn't hear (or didn't want to hear) that fierce demand. These five people have given me previously unknown freedom: freedom to feel myself through them. And now, if someone wakes me in the middle of night, I can unmistakably name their preferences, hobbies and addictions. They're MY BAND now.

...And today - while trying to live my life as usual, I came across the view that doesn't fade in my mind: overcrowded metro cabin, some person holding a colorful paper bag with an italic lettering - save me... The words I wanted to whisper to him during all the four days of our life under the same roof. But I didn't.

This past deserves to become present again. And I will go for it. Still, everything's possible as long as you believe in it...

Polyamory

2006-09-25T01:44:00.000+04:00

What a nice word, indeed. I've fallen in love with it since the very first second I saw it somewhere in the web. Polyamory. Poly-amorous... The urge, the need to love several different people at the same time.

And sometimes it's a ball and chain. When it seems to you, that you've found someone worthy, when you drift away from bringing back a single memory of an instant kiss - but who can be sure that, when lying next to that one, you won't be thinking of someone different? When that person inspires you - and according to my experience, this is the highest peak of emotional intimacy - and when you shiver when someone nearby pronounces the name or something related to that person, - why still we do desire the other ones? Polyamory - that's the answer. Very clear and seemingly justifying. Cold.

There's nothing worse than being loved by a friend. Of course, I don't mean the true friendship, this brotherly love that is above all. Equally I don't mean just sex. It's enormously hard to hear about the same thing - being polyamorous - but towards you. Especially when it comes from a friend. And directly when it comes from a friend. Because when the person is new to you, when he drives you physically and generally is of interest for you - I don't mind even if he's married. But a friend, someone you know so well - and whom you're used to treat absolutely differently, caught in that situation - that's a panopticon. You don't want to hurt - and you fear for friendship. You accept this polyamory thing for yourself, but deny it for your friend. A double standard.

And what is worth - while exploring myself, I've discovered a lot of different qualities. Good and sinful as well. But when I find something interesting enough to keep my eye on it, in some several days the same quality appears from the outside, in a different person, coming your way, but already desecrated and disheartened. This happens every time it seems to me that I've found the way.

Polyamory. A search? Don't think so. A lifestyle. Exploration. Curiosity and cynicism. A deliberate step.

Angel on the rack/Worm on the needle

2006-07-02T01:31:00.000+04:00

What the hell... Shallow newsbreaks on the background are creating a harsh soundtrack to my mental cruising. Perpetual hostages, explosions, president's bullshit pumped up to comic size. Nothing new. Only the bad news, finely selected and concentrated, with a hint of a rancid sensation. They're teaching us to lose.

I'm kinda lost again. It annoys me, worries me and saddens at the same time. What he told me, maybe it's true? Until 18 years I've always been living in love condition. And after that - only naked cynicism, perverted thinking and amoral ambitions. Nice cocktail, isn't that? Falling in love for a couple of days, like an animal, weird imaginations, senseless and numb nights - that's easy, that's rock'n'roll. As Lenny would have put it, shabba labba living.

But sometimes, in my dreams I wake up, and I know that is for real. I wake up and I see what I have become. Yes, I'm strong mentally, able to fight, creative, living in a turmoil, facing numerous "stardom difficulties" - and all the more I'm amiable and devilishly sexy. What the hell do I need more? Everyone I meet of the "mere mortals" is falling in envy equally as the ones counted to be stars are falling in love. With me and about me. But that's a miserable surface cover. When I wake up, with these tears still hanging on my cheeks, with that pain, and desire, and urge, and... inability. They are praising what I do, but this is NOTHING!!! Then I could sing, I could write, I could compose - I was creative the way I've seen it. And now... I just remember how it was then. Lenny dropped a phrase during that conversation, that if he wakes up and is unable to see the artist in the mirror, he will jump out of a bridge. Maybe it's the time for me to do it? For the last three years mirrors have seen only a fascinating face, catchy smile and playful eyes. Shocking sight, brave makeup and... what more? Where is that depth, that seriousness in relations, that continuing feeling of love within?..

But on the other side, it's all right. I'm working days and nights for my career, people are telling me that I'm gettin' famous, half in earnest, half in jest. I have no time to date, to meet my friends, to study or to build my own home. I'm trying to calm myself down and justify it with my high goals, that after all I don't need this routine. But when my work becomes routine, I realize that besides of all, I have no time to create. To be creative, to bleed for every line - oh, how much I want it! To suffer thoughts messing around my brain, waiting to be written down, - but I only suffer the silence. The deafening silence.

So maybe he was right when he supposed that I need to fall in love? That condition has always inspired me, but... When the hell was the last time I ever loved?! And am I still able to experience such things?.. And... I don't want routine. Here in this country it's impossible to find someone according to my taste. Neither visually, nor mentally. I'm much too western. Much too active and willing. But still a twilight cruiser. Eager to sacrifice everything for this ability to create. And love is also included in this "everything". An endless circle. Aimless shooter, heh... I know what it feels like.

But what disaster should have happened within me to transform from that angel on a rack, who pierced himself and wounded his own flesh and soul with memories of one single day in mutual love with a married stranger, into the worm on a needle, also suffering, but suffering of inability, still knowing that the mechanisms of regeneration are working properly and that I will survive anyway...

I want to cry: Save me! But who the hell is listening?..

Heartbanging

2006-06-11T23:44:00.000+04:00

Back. Back to the city of singing chains in evening docks and ticking streetlights. It calms me down. The city overwhelms me, comes into my soul, mildly setting the brain into more or less tranquile form. I need it desperately, need this feeling of tranquillity, of familiarity and... of home. My heart is at home there.

Several hours before that. Straightened hair over the face. Semi-ecstatic, semi-hysterical, delirious headbanging in front of those who have suddenly entered my life to leave it equally for sudden. Vibrating basses in stomach, soil-crushing riffing - and a bunch of long hair, rhythmically coming up and down, hiding the face and those sparkling pieces of flame behind the tiny drops of ice in my sight. I turned myself inside out, unwilling to hurt anyone, but the damage was done. I've hurt myself like I never did before. Like crossing the threshold of insanity, where you cannot control your actions, you just watch them aside, and only later understand, that the carnage around you was done actually inside of you. The metal guys around me were looking at me and shaking my hand with sincere respect - I really have shown them, how it's done... But they couldn't even think, or even imagine the wildest reasons of such behavior. They pushed me to the first row - as a sign of their great respect to my energy and savage headbanging performance; but no one ever will be able to look behind the scenery. That was more of despair, than of ecstasy. I didn't want to move closer to the stage. But still I did. Resurrection of the past, again. Wasn't it enough just a day before?..

Still I don't understand, why it happens so often, that I'm tearing the old scars again, and later watch the blood running from these veins, surprised, and with honest tears of pain. I thought that the happenings of fall 2004 are not dangerous to me anymore, that it's over, and the same thing won't make me cry twice. But... The sepia-colored photo on my desk still is not just a piece of artist's pride.

Two...

2006-06-07T00:23:00.000+04:00

...years passed... RIP, the lonely genius...

Coincidence?..

2006-05-27T19:40:00.000+04:00

Only the Russian-speaking ones will understand what I'm placing here below. For the others - a kind of short explanation. Here's the result of a test, showing the real colour of your wings. Mine are pointed to be the dark angel's ones... Strange, or?..

И так, у вас крылья - Темного Ангела

Готов поспорить что вы ожидали этого ответа. Вы уже знали что у вас крылья Темного Ангела, не так ли? Ваши крылья похожи на Крылья Демона, но немного отличаются.Дело в том, что вы не наслаждаетесь тьмой, вам интересно лишь ваше собственное удовольствие. Ваши крылья напоминают ангельские, но если это так, вы скорее падший ангел. Ваша любовь к грехам, стала причиной по которой вас изгнали из Рая. Они черны как крылья ворона и так же темны, как ваши желания. Вы не верите ни во что, и вам это нравится. Вы верите что Дня Страшного Суда не будет и вы можете делать, всё что захотите. У вас утонченные понятия о сексуальности и слегка хаотичное понятие счастья. Вообще-то вам нравится хаос, и вы смотрите на всё, что вы сделали как на игру. Вас привлекают люди, с которыми можно посоревноваться в остроумие, силе, и т.д, т.е к опасным людям, как вы. И это не редкость если вы бисексуальны или не испытываете комплексов по этому поводу, ибо вы везде и в каждом, ищите страсти и возбуждения. Есть шансы, что у вас есть талант к магии. Вы могущественны и вы знаете чего хотите.Как змей-искуситель пытаетесь использовать свои чары совращения и обольщения, несмотря на то, что ваши цели преследуют вред. В вас, это глубокое, темное чувство искусства, поэзии, потому что ваш разум, это темное и увлекательное место.Вы можете быть саркастичным и довольным, и в тоже время вы способны на месть, страсть, нехарактерную ни для кого. В ваших глаза, жизнь удовольствие и ничего больше. Если вы не получаете счастья вашими странными способами вы несчастны. Вам легко надоедают большинство людей. Вы возможно вовлечены в Готическую суб-культуру и возможно проявляете интерес к гот-музыке, искусству, и стилю. Множество людей смотрят на ваш слегка небрежный тип жизни и даже могут принять вас слегка легкомысленной . Неправда. Вы просто знаете что вы сексуальны, и вы чертовски этим гордитесь. Темные Ангелы имеют что-то общее с сатанистами, любят грехи и ищут силы только в себе. Поздравляем! И на сколько мне дозволенно судить, вы знаете реальный смысл жизнь! Наслаждайтесь :)

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Ambivalence

2006-04-26T00:42:00.000+04:00

So... One more revelation. Isn't that much too much for the same people?..

Desecration

2006-04-21T23:17:00.000+04:00

Everything I once believed in turned to dust with one single blow. You, who taught me to believe, have you done it just to ruin it someday? It took nine years for me to build myself on the ashes of childhood - using every your word, every chord of your guitars, every thought in your lyrics as a brick, and to become what I finally became... Due to you, and for you. Being cynical and dark, being disillusioned and sometimes rude, still I've been your fan, genuine, honest and pure. Even when facing the dirt I felt clean - because of the lessons I got from you. Everything's possible as long as you believe in it... But today I've seen that it's possible even through the things you don't believe in.

Sellout... An ugly word I hate the most in this world I got into - also due to you - world of show business. I've done it to be closer to you. I sacrificed myself, being harassed, hurt, disillusioned - but I've seen the light in the end of this tonnel. You turned the light off...

If I could also push the button and turn off this fucking mind player, that plays your songs in my head again and again, it wouldn't be so painful. Since you've gone... There's an empty space... I live all those moments again wishing you were here...
But it is there, bringing the most brilliant, masterpiece lines into my memory, and biting me, tearing me down, twisting my brains, cutting my skin... I want to go and get drunk, so fucking drunk, not to be able to control myself - Blackout... My head explodes...
- and the only thing holding me is a bitter knowledge that I have to do my work till tomorrow comes.

Hello, what have you done with our dream?! That's already not yours, that's mine... Written about those you came to help... Long before...

Where do you go, fantastic dreambird?.. Take me away to somewhere, take me away from here...
I don't know what to feel. After all I won't stop loving you in the end. This paradox tears me insane. But how that was possible?.. No, I know, I understand everything, because I've made some experience in this sphere too. And I can even say what points did they press to make you agree.

Then I was a child. Naive, romantic, wearing rosy specs. But I believed in you. Believed, that you'll never betray me, crossing your way with plastic & silicone semimusic called Conveyor. But... Heroes don't cry...
So won't I. I cannot rip you out of my heart, so you will remain there, like before, but now this pulsing muscle is a rude gory wound with a thorn in the middle. Forgive me for the truth I've spoken. I'm still loving you...

In Memoriam

2006-04-07T16:41:00.000+04:00

Since the previous owner of this blog has passed out, a lot of things came through the irreversible changes. A loss of that person is irreversible itself, and it was followed by similarly tragic, but fatal occurrences aimed at general survival. I feel really sorry for her, because, though we were very close, and I always knew all of her thoughts and had my own opinion concerning all these things, she was always dominant - and my ideas very often seemed to her too radical and materially-minded. And now, when I inherited her memory temple, I am the one to decide. On her behalf.

Sinvocation

2006-04-05T16:12:00.000+04:00

No one of them knew the truth. No one of those on the broken side of the world.

I'm staring into the luminous eyes of the city I'm thrown to. The inevitable thing to become a part of this voyeuristic society, gazing outside of their holes and trying to live the life of someone next window. I am a part of their prime time show.

You sit next to me, drawing an inverted cross on my hand. It makes me laugh deep inside, that's ludicrous. You, who always call me satanist, yourself are creating this image for me. Aren't you trying to become another prophet for me?.. These existing prophets... No one of them could stand one simple question I asked them; they all broke down: "Do you yourself believe in the truth you've spoken?"

You told me that my eyes reflect deep form of lunacy. Well, from you it sounds like an unreserved compliment. I'd prefer lunacy rather than this perverted voyeurism that is counted to be sane.

They are closing their doors for you, but they always keep their windows open - because what their life would be without the opposite side of glass?

Don't try to be my prophet. Because then you will also be dissolved in my merciless question.

Senseless

2006-04-01T02:37:00.000+04:00

A balloon filled with helium should fly. A human-being endowed with brain should be thinking. I remember, when I was a youngster, once I've seen a bunch of balloons in some room. They were hanging between floor and ceiling, without touching any surface. Too weak to rush upwards and still keeping the remains of helium molecules inside their rubber bodies - and thus unable to fall down. I came closer and cut the threads, strangling them, and they died.

Once they could think, and then I called them People. Now they barely deserve the name of human-beings. Hanging in mental vacuum and believing in their self-imposed happy-ending tales. Disguised. Maybe I should cut the threads again?..

Cynical Grin

2006-03-22T20:34:00.000+03:00

A few days ago I got the confirmation, that no matter of what I feel inside I still can hide it all behind the mask of success and even glory. I still can make people dizzy in just a half an hour, and they never know, that actually what is standing in front of them is far more depressive, gloomy and dark-minded. I don't know, how it is possible, because my inner state is so devastated at the moment... But the ones who are already used to constant communication and who are actually hard to surprise - they still react like if there was something utterly enchanting in me. Headbanging and heart-eating journalist... Sounds at least funny. But maybe this is really what I should do in my life if it goes so well?..

Remains Of The Day

2006-03-10T02:07:00.000+03:00

Making another step forward, just take a breath... and look back. Even though your mind says no, switch it off for just a single moment to drop a quick glance at the remains of the day. This is the agony of its last minutes. And the new-born day won't care at all that its predecessor has ruined your dream, it will act like prescribed, without mercy, without sympathy. And it will never think that those prescriptions may kill you. So these days are running, threading, laying down in the corners of your memory, pervertedly posing and trying to seduce you in their deadly embrace... And you hit them in the face, hurting them and thus immediately hurting yourself, like they are part of you - but that is something they've already imposed on you.

But even knowing that, it's so hard to run away, to push their sinful caresses aside, to forget them and forever divide your paths.

Bathory Resurrection

2006-02-24T17:48:00.000+03:00

Wait, concentrate and try to remember: what did you feel at your birthday when being a child?.. I just wonder, how the magic is fading away with years. I don't mean the age: there's nothing more relative and occasional than this. I mean different - why I'm starting to hate every day that is giving the others a possibility to congratulate? The anniversary of being sent into this world. World of struggle, world of sellout, of nothingness. For the right to survive being yourself. Is that the general meaning?

These people surrounding me are simply happy knowing that "it's my day". They really do celebrate it, while I myself don't give a damn of what is happening. They used to behaving so at their own birthdays and they think that everyone should feel like that. But celebrating the anniversary while every day becomes the turning point - isn't it senseless in its deepest form? And instead of partying and accepting motley packages I started that day in style of countess Bathory. Lying in the bath, where water is painted crimson, is quite relaxing: knowing that you're alive and healthy, depressed and seemingly calm, and watching this red liquid on your skin - like someone had just cut his veins... Someone, not you. It's like a rebirth through mental death. Pretty weird, I know. Perverted even. But it gives at least a feeling of indifference and some calming effect. Relax, you're dead. Something like that.

I haven't felt jubilant. It was more like a funeral of something inside of me. Very deep inside... I guess, if it goes like that any further, there will be my personal cemetery, with no crosses, no memorials and no memory itself.

Feast On The Ruins

2006-02-23T14:44:00.000+03:00

Pulsating emotions in memory garden...
This life is my greatest, still hectic creation.
Abnormal devotions, so waited, but sudden,
Are tearing the darkness to flashes of passion.

Regretfully born on the ruins of aeon
I know, I'm a sinner, but craving explorer.
I'm diving the darkness to find what is hidden,
But dying in darkness, when party is over...

Blood-dripping

2006-02-21T16:02:00.000+03:00

Whatever happened in my life before, is nothing comparing to what is taking place now. And whatever is still waiting for me in my foggy future, veiled, unpredictable, but hardly as drastic and squeezing - I can just desperately hope that it won't repeat the present. I don't know how, but I survived. I still have to survive, instead of living - for a very narrow circle of people who still care. It doesn't break me, though, - but it feels like it's a kind of sadistic game: it doesn't break my back, but it definitely enjoys twisting my fingers, cutting my body and pulling me to the point of insanity.

This period in my life is a nightmare I want to wake up from.

Clairvoyance

2006-02-12T13:52:00.000+03:00

What is wearing the name that promises demolition, by the matter of fact appeared for me the opposite. Something healing and motivating. Due to the complete lack of time I didn't see the show, so the whole contiguity was reduced only to a microphone communication. Just a half an hour, but in some several weeks that was the definite highlight.

I wonder just how that was possible, that the person, knowing Russia only by newsbreaks, could see and feel the situation so poignantly?.. Of course, he couldn't know anything, and what he told me was nothing, but a supposition - but holy hell, if he knew how right he was! With the only amendment: what he described is much more promising and positive, than the reality which in Russian conditions turns out to be a sellout...

Corners Of Subconsciousness

2006-02-07T17:11:00.000+03:00

Trapped in four walls, where darkness is hungry to devour its prey, one can choose either to hide compressed in the only spotlit corner or to dive into obscurity. Most of the creatures prefer the first, no matter that thus they're sentencing themselves to narrow existence back against the wall. But there are maniacs, who - no matter of fear - still do the second. Those who enter the sea of darkness to explore what it contents.

If I find something, I'll let you know.

Funeral For A Dream

2006-02-03T18:34:00.000+03:00

Wait... Stand. And listen to the deafening silence...