Sanoja: Meshuggah. Chaosphere. The Exquisite Machinery Of Torture.

[Music:Fredrik Thordendal, Tomas Haake; Lyric:Tomas Haake]

A sustained static gaze, oblivious to surroundings.
Empty, strained, unmoving eyes; Inverted, paralyzed
A burning mass of emotions denied, enraged by years of silencing.
An accumulation of feelings suppressed, returning to devour.
Bright rays of chaos, generated by subconsciousness.
retribution by own thoughts; twisting the mind into fits
Fuelled with pains unveiled. Burning with contamination.
Set afire by disowned self-lies; they penetrate the eyes.

I... Am I the next? Self inflicted overload.
Thoughts returning to think me away.
I... Will I be reprieved?
or am I just awaiting
the sentence of my exquisite,
internal machinery of torture

The turmoil arises, from the innermost core of denial.
Shining streams of putrefaction, reflugent with disease -
In outward motion to redress the balance by retaliation.
A terminal journey to relieve cognition of ability
Mind satalite, by rejected senses and emotions.
Tearing flames, born in mind; Creations of self deception.
Strained, not to lose the grip -
Humans locked in the new disease.
A light by eyes unseen has come to burn us clean.

I... Am I the next? Self inflicted overload.
Thoughts returning to think me away.
I... Will I be reprieved,
or am I just awaiting
the sentence of my exquisite,
internal machinery

[solo]

I sense; The violent facilities
Discorporated by the light
All my pleas; denied
By my psycho-dentical enemy
The inner light of me
I'm dead
my shit slowly dissovates
Shadows no longer gifts
from this lifeless form
that i've become

Consciousness fails the grip. Substance now decreasing
Amorphous. Without shape - I'm vanishing;
dematerialized
My own corrosive thoughts - Probes armed with acid
tools
Disintegrated, I'm bleached out of reality
Scattered bits internally; My last transparent
remains;
Floating inanimate objects; Spinning into my soul
Defeated by my contents. Tables turned, I'm a thought
repressed
I'm swallowed into myself. Destination; nothingness

I... Am I the next? Self inflicted overload
Thoughts returning to think me away
I... Will I be reprieved
Or am I just awaiting the sentence of my exquisite,
internal machinery
I... I've been the next. My self inflicted overload,
My neglected thoughts have thought me undone.
I... I was never reprieved
Now I know the sentence of my exquisite,
internal machinery of torture