Fault. Other. Cyanide. Zeneszám

Damnation to our kind, salvation spare our lives, disillusion through these eyes, contemplate that we?ve become to inflictor of this savagery misanthrope has eaten a hole in me, blackened by disease. I swear that you will pay for what you?ve done. The pressure on your mind it caves in. Life it stops and manic begins. There?s nothing that can save you from the blistering memories tortured hindsight extirpate your reason to mediate with the one who paint the portraits of life in turmoil. The time have come for an end for what you?ve done, injections of cyanide under your skin. The only one who understands is the voice inside your head