Cradle of Filth are goddam good for you. I’ve been like a doomsday prophet among my peers, ringing my bells, chanting and spewing forth vitriol and gibberish. I swear it’s been for a good cause. Often they assume so too, only they stop smiling, nodding, and begin to construct sentences out of mushy diction and wild gesticulation. I’m trying to sell them on the virtues of Gothic Music. I’m trying to warn them that the Illuminati are real and are out to get you and know that you know this. They laugh the gutlaugh of the content, and wipe their eyes with the pudgy hands of, of capitalism, and scurry away like lobsters into their caves. I’ll be safe under these blankets! They all claim that. But They wear large, heavy boots, and love the crunching noise you make when The Man puts his foot down.

No. Often I get cow-like eyelashes fluttering with audible ticking from clockwork minds. I would accept this, this would be cute, if they didn’t bitch about it so much, if they didn’t steal concepts from any form of the elite and apply them to themselves, like the kraftglue and toupee on the used car salesman. Tragedy unsues! My warning, though, is addressed mainly for the sensitive, the aesthetes, the lost and wondering poets of faggoty disposition and androgynous moperings. These are the sorts of people who wear their souls on their sleeves, ripe and moist for raping from the consensus! You silly, lovely people. You quaint and sweet little elves, you. You need some sort of protection, some sort of buffer. You need a happy layer of cynicism, of hard knocks so that one can differentiate between the arse and the elbow. You need at least some level of antagonism or else The Man will break you and suck out your marrow.

Yes, The Man. I’ve seen him - he’s fat and greedy and greasy runs down his chins. He is probably Winston Churchill in some ghastly undead state. I couldn’t really tell - the lighting was atmospheric and eerie, and not particularly conducive to identification. But! I was terrified, I assure you! One passive half, golf-ball tumors of fat, ice-cream scooped in a deliberate, horrifying arrangement - the dark side shadowed enough to reveal a snarl and one red eye - it was the only thing that diverted my attention away from my footwear in all those years. I speak of my lost youth, gentlemen - I spent it staring orgiastically at my shoes. Oh, the dances! But, the antagonism. You will hear mooings, and brayings, from various dumb animals - you must learn to ignore them. You must learn blind, stupid arrogance. I ask you - Fuck Your Parents. Let this be your motto. Do not let them get you down. You know your power. I say this to you, Romeo. Persue your sweetheart! The world is constructed by fools and madmen! You are neither!