If I am to cry I could as well sing, for the point of music is not to make yourself feel better, but to make others feel worse.
Set within the reverie of a devil-worshipper, it is a cracked looking glass, mirroring a multitude of renderings of the same visceral fantasy: the end of the world. It is a silent prayer for fiery, dissolutive rain. It is a drunken siren song beckoning the world to the bosom of DEATH. Seeping with satanic hubris, yet laced with a subtle despair over the doubt that the End might not, after all, be the the aesthete's glorious Omega affair, but perhaps a creeping, sickly thing, labouring under the yoke of cyclic necessity. That eschatons might come and go. It is the "Sound of Satan's Voice". Apocalyptic heterodox black metal from the tunnels and chambers that gave rise to "Der Teufelsbund".