I’m looking for my face. I’m looking for my reflection. My mirror refuses to look at me. Pests in a brain are dancing their ugly ritualistic dances. They give off noxious fumes polluting my conscious with the pictures I’m so afraid to see. I’m listening to Brainbombs and it feels like watching some weird vhs from the 80’s found in a cellar of your weird grandfather. Is that real? Is that some snuff movie or a wicked joke of your secret lover? Is anything real except that noise in your head? I feel something I’ve never thought I’d feel. And I’ve got no one around to share this experience with. I’ve got no one. As I imagine my perfect friend I see bloody eyes; his words are the blood stains in the air. He’s listening to Brainbombs and going crazy day by day. He’ll be the king of asylum with a crown of paper and thoughts of a madman. My perfect friend I’m about to lose. Brainbombs will make him vanish in asylum. He will become a legend. He will never die. Brainbombs are pests of the saint. Brainbombs are the sounds of inevitable insanity. You cannot resist this green and blue noise of the killing insects raping your reflection dancing on a sticky surface of a grey and cold floor of the toilet. No one will see you here. No one will find you and your perfect imaginary friend here. No one cares about you at all. You are decaying to the sounds of Brainbombs and seems like nothing can stop it…
Links:
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