• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 04
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American Gangster

The pitchforks in my eyes will sear the fear of god right into you.

My dress is the curtain that hangs in the window like a dark ghost that guards the secrets skulking through our hand-sewn house.

We are the OGs - Original Goths, with our ashen skin and austere miens. We are portentously plain and we live in the plains of your American nightmares.

We travel through labyrinths of maize, flaying husks like the skin of the blasphemous.

We look to the pitchfork for answers. The devil is in the details: He is the needle in the haystack that will sear crosses into your eyes.