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Biographical entrails...

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Behind These Eyes...

Your "host"...

As the gauntlet has been thrown down, here is your (un)usual suspect...

Well... at this stage of chronological elapsis, I'm not entirely convinced of the necessity to open myself up to all the varying degrees of twisted individuals that may come across... not that I'm expecting any traffic whatsoever... almost guaranteed that even Big Brother certainly isn't watching.
 
It's pretty lonely and cold out here, save for the odd crackle of speaker distortion and a friendly fibre optic.
 
All nuclear winter and no puritanical sunshine here, eh?
 
In the midst of this bullshit I guess I'll concede and introduce myself to anyone who hasn't been informed... I'm Dave... and I'm another lazy Australian.
 
For now I'll leave it at this as I don't really have much to attract interest in anyways.

Historical histrionics...

On a sacred and red-tinged-sunlight-beaten cliffside overlooking the dense illumination and an endless sea of sand circa the middle of that horrible decade of western decadence known as the ''80s,' a terrible seedling was planted. In so many words.
 
From that day forward the seed grew in the most torrid of conditions... as simultaneously the desert plains were awash with deep flooding and hell had cracked open, exposing crystalline stalagmites in which the wretched would perform their unholy rituals upon and the "righteous" would be impaled.
 
It was made known that the coming of the ending was all too premature and that what had sprung forth at the height of decadent delirium was nothing short of a creature in filth of the highest of orders.
 
Growing disproportionately into an almost tragic state, this beast can be found behind a myriad of beaming pixels and loving radiation, in the curtains of darkened manors, and beneath the average basin. Simultaneously. Perpetually. Crying eerily. Begging pitifully for candy-flavoured malnourishment. Hah.
 
This shall change...
 
"If you'll bare with me, you'll fear of me..." - Opeth- The Moor
 
 
 
 
 
Am I only amusing myself...?

Is the rose really that ugly, James Gatz, or is it simply a matter of jaded and pitiful perceptions?