The white page of death.

The dread of the white page, a grasp on human energy, empty staff paper, or better, a silent room...

Every morning a new page, a new chapter is written, every night brings the destroyer, we burn it, let the wind carry it.

Our past becomes a white page, empty, only then can we see clearly, move freely, live and die without regrets.

We are Makers, empty pages, empty sounds, nothingness in the wind,

We change the world through our own demise, we bring destruction and rebirth.

Cyfnos

p.s.: we like ice cream too