Oh fuck, oaken baritone, punctuated by guitars, the swirling mixture of four horsemen on their horses, riding after Sunset into our...

god is chaos. I necessitate wonder for the questions that I ask, but my answers afford me a title long-since feared & wearied: mad not...

No body’s perfect, save thine dressed in blood, and wrapped about the head by shawl of silk. “Impostor of the Lord,” they label you,...