#clockwork lullaby VI

[darkstarbureau]

茶番カプリシオ (chaban kapurishio, Capriccio Farce (Clockwork Lullaby VI)) singable translyrics (the saga continues)

i may or may not have accidentally put some words multiple times a little too close to eachother but it shouldnt be noticable i think

also used actual names for characters instead of titles because im odd like that

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ARTE & POLLO: The judge waiting to bring 'pon her seize Riddled with such junk that'll all but gleam Come, now, their ashes fall like snow This irregularity is justice, no?

IRINA: With this gavel I will carry the search still going through The divine ordered us to keep collecting their remains If somehow you have an idea where they're to be found Come to the stand and continue to testify, "Sorceress of Time"!

MA: Epochs still continue to pass as an heirloom of their time Coming and going their masters, but one's to walk the line Even if the future still herds its feigning uncertainty I have an intuition that she is the one to blame

ARTE & POLLO: Take a look, take a look, go and look high and low Left, right, left right, ebb their disguises She has the key to all you could ever know Look for "The Master of the Hellish Yard"!

ADAM: In duration of this farce dragging through, it'll soon get to you All will be pointless when the gear stagnates

BANICA: Her brother who fell down into the earth, to which dreams won't concern She's too far gone and you know that your mother was the one to blame

POLLO: Justice keeps ringing scenarios of dissarray Vessels that've known no peace for all of their lives

ARTE: Each doting upon their very own ostinato Discordant, they sing a capriccio

MA: They've already written stories of depravity in the stars They walk alone on their path of all too destined parts

BANICA: If they were to ever see avarices' cold design They would certainly make a statement deep in blame:

ADAM: What really scared my pity into shame—

IRINA: Were the vices of humanity

Let's take a look at what we have and address all the facts This man who stands here is the child of lust itself I give you my special permission; come up to the stand Inform us of when you first arrived to this cursed forest

GAMMON: There's a feeling deep inside that I just cannot shake This urge that I need to seek the katana of violet Seeming its necessary to solve my mystery I trekked on into this wood solemn all by myself

ARTE & POLLO: Kill and devour, if it's grim, prowl anyway Such a lack of dignity really cannot be helped

IRINA: Conviction, conviction, at the rate of our mission Perjury! Conviction! Execution!

GAMMON: When I put on that sharp facade of no mercy to the gods The girl in front of me who changed her wits and lent me her hand

LILITH: I wanted the victim to be charged right since I am of employ

GAMMON: As of my release they've called me "Cursed Gardener"

MA: "Sorceress of Time" and also the "Cursed Gardener" are Harbingers for the awakening of them Each embracing their objectives, held up high and to the chest Ephemerally keeping invaders at bay

ARTE & POLLO:

"Master of the Court" and the "Master of the Graveyard" too Ticking gears, mopping tears "Master of the Hellish Yard" When the atonement of this theater will go to waste Who will be amused at the end of all things?

ADAM (2): Lulila lulila luli luli la… The first beating heart of the irregular

BANICA: Friends along the way farcically paining us

ADAM: Hopes and loves coinciding with losses deep in debt

IRINA: All continues to fuse with the turning of the clocktower

LILITH: The clockwork lullaby continually rings out a cry

ADAM (2): Right before the "Collector" took a bullet to the head

GAMMON: He constructed a theater that would contain the dead

MA: Will the paradise that he wished for his oh so dear Michelle

GUMILLIA: Ever come to its decided fruition?

ARTE & POLLO: Come, now, let us coincide With our own eyes this farce we call life

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man.

anyway you know the drill i WILL be back

[im-captain-basch]

57 for spotify wrapped :3

Sorry this took a while to respond to, I got distracted.

57 was Capriccio Farce/Clockwork Lullaby VI by mothy/akuno-P

[atomkrp-blog]

WELCOME TO XAVIER’S, SONG DAEHYUN !

… loading statistics. currently aged twenty-two, entering first semester of xavier’s in seoul, south korea. decrypting files… mutant has the following records: strength +4, durability +7, agility +4, dexterity +4, intelligence +6. currently, he is classified under tier omega.

BACKGROUND.

this is a story where a boy eats himself and never spits the flesh out. shrapnel bones and papier-mâché skin against your palate: hemorrhage painting your insides with the color of unrest, carving a private death in the confines of your own ribcage.

the corpses of your sanity taste like copper in your lonely mouth.

licks your lips clean from the residue of your nightmares—                                                           sanity never comes away in a bang.

you partake in the game played between mortals made serpents. your unholy intents, their forked tongues. it’s an all-night dance. the music is an overture of reprised elegies. hands on hips, hands on shoulder blades, hands on throats.

             you come out alive.                            but not intact. never intact.

turn the clockwork around, however, and clasp the zeroes between your teeth.

            o.

your body is a husk, containing the hollow echo of your scream.

             i.

she is the baby’s breath in his summer, counting filaments of the sky through the rim of her sun-kissed dress. when she threads her fingers between his, heat. pooled at the stomach, rusting on his cheeks. some of those afternoons smell like forgotten nightmares, sunk in the collarbones of his daydreams. some of those evenings haze his thoughts in the stained glass of emotions, cracking through his visions. he brings her home and locks his monsters in their caskets.

how the nights end: arched spines, tiptoeing whispers. she washes his mouth with her wine. he is afraid of diluting her insides with acid.

she maps poetries into his skin and he traces the constellation of her teeth. she is made of soft carnage and he, the victim. he doesn’t mind the casualty, cutting his ribcage to let her fingers curl around his heart. she pulses red and he breathes in her dust.

knees to the floor, mouth colored with wishes. there is something different about the way her tongue wraps around the simple word.

darkness descends. you consume her.

             ii.

                                 maybe more than you should have.

she holds the small of your fingers. a smile splinters the pale of her lips. he isn’t smiling. he reads between the lines, catching implications between his trembling teeth. she holds the small of your fingers. he caresses the brittle of her skin.

the silence echoes. her tongue wraps around three syllables, tasting more than a whisper. the silence blossoms and suffocates the room. except for the static noises, always the static noises. it’s a uniform sound that punctures his ears they bleed shards.

you make her a martyr, and him, a fallen soldier.

             iii.

he fills you with his ruins.

her residue. his empty daydreams. somehow the color of the summer sky resembles blood more than sorrow. he keeps bleeding; there’s no scar tissue, just open wounds. he decorates the jutting bones of his knuckles with ire. catharsis comes in the beauty of bruised roses. sometimes when he laughs, you think he’s angry.

             he lathers his mouth with her ashes.

you have her eyes. sometimes he looks into them, looking past you. he stares at them for the longest time.

             iv.

he says you learned fast, breaking sentences into slivers, smearing fingertips with ink. what you failed to learn: your shadows sometimes flicker.

             you fear darkness but it fears you more.

the black is serrated, teeth razor sharp against your jugular. your moments between sleep are painted with ragged breaths and unspoken pleas. there is something moving in the dark.

he believes it’s her, keeping you company.

monsters don’t live in the absence of lights, he says. they live in your bones, gnawing at your sinews. you were born with them inside you.

            v.

what you were born with besides the monstrosity: demise, spelled another way.

                                       you were architected to carry an empire in you.

             vi.

he slips bloodshed into your lullabies.

bruises embody his detonations. he looks tired, but alive for once. you don’t speak when his knuckles rupture the fragility in the dying war. you don’t move when his weary limbs pretend that they aren’t weighted by the lingering ghosts.

it’s a cyclical catastrophe, your feigned innocence. how the nights end: you, collecting his pieces and trying to reassemble his bones.

but they have been too dislocated.

yet you talk to him, talk talk talk until your mouth blooms poppies, trying to keep him alive.

             vii.

there is a pool of moonburst in your head, carving craters and dents to soak them in liquid destructions.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. you’d like to think of these: bird-bones, tender skin. think of gentleness. think of baby’s breath.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. what’s left: splinters. these days fill themselves to the neck with digging your nails into your skin. you are a cathedral of burning, tendrils of black billowing from your crevasses. you are a pair of tangled feet on the brim of apocalypse, waiting for darkness to swallow you whole.

when it does, it never spits you out.

             viii.

you don’t know which to sacrifice: your mind, or your body.

                                                      ( or both. )

             ix.

how does it feel, being a stranger to your own body? you imagine that your fingers aren’t yours, standing under the shower for hours hoping to shed your skin off your flesh. the sight of the red and blue can’t be more fascinating.

                                                                     a dissected mind.

you breathe in decay until your lungs shiver. you wear the rust until your knuckles turn gaunt.

            x.

they saw: how your shadows flicker. they saw: how your darkness enshrouds.

             somebody tells you to run, run, run. from yourself.

last time you did, you broke a bone and handed the pieces to them. last time you did, you bruised your mind and the capillaries are still severed.

                             ( but this isn’t a compromise, this isn’t a discussion. )

             xi.

you bite the pomegranate of chaos and swallow the seeds, the flowers blooming in your stomach.

                                             question:

             do you run from the beasts in your reality,                   or do you run from the monsters your invented in your head?

and this is it — the run, run, run. in your fisted palm is a lungful of blood, drained from others’ veins. they call it a sacrifice. they call it an escape. what they actually call it: an exodus. what you actually call it: your carnages. how do you tell bloodshed apart from your fractured facts?

              ( you don’t. )

MUTATION.

he has the ability to become the embodiment of contagion, meaning that he can spread influences accordingly. his state of abilities is dependent on his current mental as well as physical status, although at the peak he can infect up to one kilometre radius, or even more considering the complexities of the influence being spread. his influences include, but not limited to, diseases and insanity, as well as appeal to negative emotions. when it comes to emotions, he finds it easier to amplify than inflict from zero, although the latter is far from impossible. negative influences in the mind are usually formed through the similar systematics of killing serotonin, and sometimes, in more severe cases, inducing necrosis. he’s most educated in terms of disease manipulation, however, compared to the other aspects of his powers.

STRENGTHS.

he can generate, induce, and manipulate diseases — also called disease manipulation in terms of power. while this application greatly varies, it’s highly based on his own knowledge in regards to these illnesses. he cannot inflict what he doesn���t know, and while he can create the diseases, he needs to comprehend the systematic of the diseases: how it affects the immune system, how it affects the body, etc. his understandings about diseases when it comes to this ability are vastly different from that of medical knowledge, and it cannot simply be explained in words.

he can also accelerate and suppress diseases, although healing is a far-fetched idea that he has yet to apply a lot. thus, curing is an aspect least touched upon, rendering it almost obsolete in his deposit. other applications of this are: infection empowerment ( ability to become empowered by the presence of diseases ), pathogen manipulation ( transferral, mimicry, elimination, hypnotic ), cellular disintegration ( to destroy cells by inflicting diseases ), healing factor nullification, as well as mutation inducement, although this one is extremely limited to what might be received by the victim’s dna. poison manipulation — which includes all scopes of poison, including toxin and venom, is also within his reach considering the similar systematics to disease manipulation.

he also possesses a fragment of parasite physiology and virus mimicry, although this is the least harnessed out of the other powers. through his parasitic characteristics, he’s able to tap into genetic memories, and upon touch, replicate an extent of knowledge, despite not much. it’s typically only on the surface, enveloping the conscious. through this, he can read the minds, be they memories or understandings, although this doesn’t last long after the contact is cut off.

in a sense, he’s also bestowed with regenerative healing factor by absorbing someone else’s health, also through direct contact. as for the virus mimicry, while he’s unable to perform anything that alters his solid form, he’s able to execute some of the applications in it, such as rupturing internal organs, although in order to do that he needs to have the victim remaining still — for it takes time. he can also perform cellular disintegration, which relates back to regenerative healing factor nullification, in which he can overpower cellular regeneration.

WEAKNESSES.

he is, by no means, immune to his own powers, and therefore anyone who mimics this power can hit him at his point of vulnerability. he has no superhuman immunity, albeit slightly more enhanced in a way that he doesn’t fall sick as easily, but he’s definitely still able to contract diseases that he himself can spread onto others. the only way to cure himself is by applying his own healing power, which is far from polished. another way to lessen this effect would be through empowerment, although not all diseases can be empowered, and may weaken and eventually kill him instead.

emotional influences are limited to negative scopes only, with the spectrum lying at the corner of fear and madness, and he cannot spread other types of emotions apart from these. it also limits the amplification of emotional states for those around him, where he can only magnify the negative ones as opposed to the positives.

also, in terms of mental stability, he’s slowly decaying considering his powers consume a lot of him. they feed off his sanity, in a way that his emotional responses towards his own influences cause a decline. these powers also rely heavily on his imagination, and most of the time, he feels the imaginary pain of the emotions and diseases before being able to transfer them.

the spectrum of illnesses that he can spread highly depends on the amount of knowledge that he has on said specimens. it’s easier for him to inflict diseases on humans, knowing their specifics of immune system and whatnot, rather than vigils and mutants considering that they vary highly. with the variants, he needs to gauge a measurement as to how much influence is needed to affect them at all.

his power is mostly effective towards those around him as opposed to himself, meaning that while he’s able to apply some of them onto his own benefits, most of it is actually an output. his powers rely on offensive instead of defensive manner, in which if someone manages to replicate and outpower him, he’d be unable to form a defence mechanism. his mimicry might bring some powers inward, but as they’re not as trained as the rest of the powers, they do not work as effectively either.

being mentally unstable also takes a toll on his powers, seeing that they’re reliant on his stability to perform the tasks. it turns into a paradox where his abilities make him unstable; it formulates a never-ending ring of fire, which he knows will eventually consume him mentally. while he can regenerate his own brain cells by the various techniques that he can apply, be it through absorption or empowerment, he cannot fix what’s broken from the sanity for it’s intangible, leaving him with a rotting mind. and unfortunately, his ability to affect emotions are also increasing the volatility of his mental state, further worsening his conditions.

knowledge replication through parasitic tendencies can only be acquired through direct contact, skin on skin without any hindering fabrics and the likes. upon having the contact terminated, knowledge that isn’t obtained in his understandings ( e.g. adoptive muscle memories, as well as other types of knowledge which systematic is foreign to him ) would dissipate as soon as it comes. this doesn’t mean that he can replicate powers either, unless it has something to do with the mind. he can only read memories and thoughts superficially, and although some might be retained depending on how long the contact remains, the majority of it is usually forgotten.

[fcrbabyrocknroll-blog]

MARK RONSON & JOSH HOMME

“Dos grandes de la música”

01/05/2018

Por: Fabio Castellanos Ramos

 Vaya que al pronunciar este par de nombres viene mucho a la cabeza de cualquiera que haya escuchado música del año dos mil para acá, haces unos días vi una foto de esta par de músicos, es importante recordar que trabajaron juntos en el 2017 para que en el mas de agosto saliera a la luz bajo el sello de “Matador Records” y con Ronson como productor del disco, llego “Villians” el séptimo álbum de Queens of Stone Age  banda de Josh Homme, dicho álbum a su vez dio paso a la gira mundial en la cual la banda california continua.

Después de mencionar y hacer un poco de memoria sobre la relación que hay entre ambos de unos meses para acá, hay que hablar por separado de lo que cada uno ha hecho en la industria musical que los ha llevado a que sus nombres sean una referencia en cuanto producción musical y grandes colaboraciones con otros artistas.

Comencemos con Mark Daniel Roson nacido en Reino Unido en el año de 1975, que tuvo un infancia llena de bajos y altos donde encontró su pasión por la música, cambiando su residencia a la gran manzana apenas con ocho años de edad pero que nunca dejo de visitar su alma mater para que de ahí continuara descubriendo el rock británico y con eso seguir alimentando su pasión por el, llegando a describirse como “libre musicalmente” lo que años mas tarde lo veríamos en cada trabajo de estudio y colaboraciones con otros artistas. En primera instancia su paso como D.J sirvió para la exploración por diferentes géneros no olvidando los que le apasionaban más, finalmente llego su debut en el año de dos mil tres con “Here Comes the Fuzz” álbum que exploraba a escena musical  del Hip-Hop que conto con colaboraciones significativas de Sean Paul, Nate Dogg y Ghostface Killah, un trabajo interesante que se posiciono en el numero setenta del Reino Unido, más tarde regresaría a sus orígenes del rock británico para que en dos mil ocho con “Version” denuevo con colaboraciones donde el nombre mas importante era el de Amy Winehouse logro alcanzar la estratosfera siendo un completo éxito haciéndolo ganar un  Brit Award, lo que lo puso en tendencia dentro de la industria, mas tarde en dos mil diez llegaría el “Record Collection” que de nuevo contaría con colaboraciones de diferentes artistas, recibió puestos altos en los charts de el Reino Unido e Irlanda, llegando al dos mil catorce año del “Uptown Special” donde llego el éxito más grande comercialmente hablando por el sencillo junto a Bruno Mars entrego “Uptown Funk” una de las canciones más escuchadas del año,

Una trayectoria  bastante respetable haciendo música, pero ese talento no se quedó ahí, durante las mismas producciones de su álbums, como productor hizo uno de los discos mas inolvidables de la década, unos años antes de “Version” estuvo “Back to Black” de una de las artistas más recordadas Amy Winehouse  cantante y compositora dentro del Jazz, R & B y Soul que tristemente falleciera a los veintisiete años, pero que en es disco dejo mucho de su talento que fue bien impulsado por Ronson que llevo a este álbum a ser uno de los más galardonados en la quincuagésima entrega de los Grammys, durante años posteriores fue cosechando mas reconocimientos y premios, siendo este el mejor trabajo que Ronson ha producido en lo que va de su carrera.

Ahora bien ya hablamos de Ronson y su envidiable trayectoria en el medio, mientras el formo discos explorando diversos estilos musicales a los cuales se les unieron algunos colaboradores importantes, tenemos a Joshua Michael Homme un de los rockeros más prolíficos del nuevo milenio haciendo álbum tras álbum un tributo a el hard rock y heavy metal con el que creció durante su adolescencia.

El nació el Palm Springs California en el años 1973 dos años antes que Ronson, a pesar de nacer en un lugar de cierto renombre este no tenia un vida de lujos, al pertenecer a la clase obrera, este pronto mostro su rebeldía lo que a su vez detono el comienzo de su carrera musical a temprana edad, primero pasando por Kyuss como guitarrista logro tener un impacto de cinco años que termino disolviéndose, de ahí fundaría Queens of Stone Age con viejos compañeros de Kyuss para que a principios del nuevo milenio saliera bajo el sello de Interscope “Rated R” opera prima de la banda que logra aplusos de la critica y el disco platino en el Reino Unido además de contar con colaboraciones como las de Rob Halford vocalista de Judas Priest, este álbum tenia un imagen poco usual que incluía aspectos muy sensibles ante la sociedad pero al fin funciono para poner a Queens en la escena, un par de años más tarde llegaría “Songs for the Deaf” que conto con infinidad de colaboraciones  como la de Dave Grohl en “No one Knows” que como sencillo tuvo a la banda en lo alto además de que se convertiría en una de las canciones más conocidas de la banda posteriormente en 2005 sale a la luz Lullabies to Paralyze, en 2007 Era Vulgaris, en 2013 "...Like Clockwork" y en 2017 "Villains", todos éxitos internacionales y con el aplauso unánime de la crítica.

Este último siendo lo que uniría en el estudio a Ronson y Homme, dicho álbum se distinguió por no contar con las colaboraciones tradicionales de la banda además de traer a el mencionado Ronson para producrilo, Homme habiendo desempeñado este rol en prácticamente todos los álbumes anteriores, el resultado final es bastante bueno siendo un álbum corto pero con canciones muy bailables y buscando conservar al rock puro, una de estas es “The Way Used to Do” una bailable y disfrutable  canción de amor llena de elementos como guitarras fuertes con compases de batería que hacen que los cuatro minutos y medio sean un deleite para los oidos, además esta se suma a “Feet Don’t Fail me” y “Domesticated Animals” para formar un tridente de canciones enérgicas llenas de el espíritu del rock puro, el álbum alcanza el punto mas alto cerrando es corto trabajo de nueve canciones con “Villians of Circunstance” una balada de amor que sube y baja cerrando con una gran instrumentación entre cada elemento, bajo, batería, guitarras y  piano cierran uno de los mejores discos del dos mil diecisiete.

Como dije al inicio mucho viene a mi mente al decir ambos nombre, decir que son dos grande de la música no es exagerado, a veces muchos dejamos de lado todo lo que hay detrás de como se hace una canción o un disco, estos hombres entienden esto de una forma diferente a los demás, han dedicado su carrera musical a homenajear a los que fueron su inspiración un dia, se mantiene fieles a su estilo por un lado Ronson a explorar con los géneros y por otro Homme a mantener al rock vigente con toda la esencia que lo caracteriza, han triunfado en sus propios términos obteniendo el reconocimiento en la música, al cien por ciento su obra no es perfecta pero vaya que cualquiera quisiera trabajar con ellos caso es el de Ronson que como productor ha tenido a artistas como  Robbie Williams, Lily Allen, Kaiser Chiefs, Duran Duran, Bruno Mars, Paul McCartney y Amy Winehouse el cual le valió la obtención de tres Premios Grammyen 2008, gracias a su aporte en el álbum Back to Black.

Por otro lado Homme ha sido el encargado de la madures muscial de Artic Monkeys desde Humbug y Suck It and See llevando a la banda has AM en donde aunque no produjo colaboro, esperando que el dia once de este mes veamos Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino podamos ver su consolidación como una banda importante, a esto se suma los mencionados albums de Queens y la placa de despedida del legendario Iggy Pop el álbum “Post Pop Depression”.

Al final de este recuento nos quedamos con un par no solo grandes artistas sino productores a los que no hay que perderles la huella por que en cada oportunidad que tienen entregan algo que verdaderamente deleita a los oídos de cualquier, es importante no olvidar a estos nombres y el legado que nos han dejado y que nos pueden dejar.

[recordsarebetterthanpeople]

PEOPLE ARE BETTER THAN RECORDS : this is the end (pt 3)

Roméo Diana, 22 ans, Metz.

Tiens la bass-baraque dans CONFUSION et pousse les amplis dans CHAIR.

A choisi Villains de QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE.

.

Je crois qu'une mise en scène est nécessaire. Oui, ce disque est très jeune. Oui, il est impossible d'en parler comme si j'en étais à ma 500ème écoute. Oui, tu vas certainement hausser un sourcil et froncer l'autre en repensant à la consigne d'écriture de RABTP : un disque avec lequel on a vécu quelque chose. Il est certain que je n'ai pas eu le temps de faire des enfants avec ce disque, mais avec ce groupe, je ne les compte plus. Voilà pourquoi je l’ai choisi : il ne fait qu'amplifier ce que je vis depuis maintenant 15 ans.

2002. Je suis un enfant de 7 ans élevé dans une famille d'amoureux de la musique. On en fait, on en écoute, on en achète et on en pirate. Mon oncle avait pris l'habitude de m'offrir un CD chaque mois, une compilation ou un album entier. Cette fin d'année-là, je reçois dans la boîte aux lettres Songs For The Deaf, troisième album de QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE. Un disque piraté, ce n'est pas parfait, c'est pourquoi lorsque je l'insère dans le lecteur, c'est le 4ème morceau (A Song For The Dead) qui démarre le bal. Et c'est l'extase : je n'avais jamais rien entendu de tel. Une rage folle et incontrôlable que crachaient les enceintes. Mosquito Song est une excellente musique (si l'on retire leur reprise des KINKS, Everybody's Gonna Be Happy) pour clôturer une première aventure chargée en émotions. Je l'ai tellement écouté et transporté partout qu'il est désormais illisible, mais il est toujours sur mon étagère, comme une sorte de trophée. C'est le premier disque que j'ai jamais acheté moi-même. La FNAC a alors reçu quelques billets de ma part, car bientôt s'ajoutèrent Rated R et Queens Of The Stone Age.

Le premier (2000) enchaîne les tubes (Monsters in the Parasol, Feel Good Hit of the Summer et The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret). Je me souviens surtout de l'incroyable I Think I Lost My Headache, véritable monstre de puissance. Le deuxième (1998) est le premier album du groupe. Les influences de KYUSS sont encore très présentes et le groupe est jeune. Regular John et The Bronze sont celles sur lesquelles j'ai le plus de souvenirs. Je me revois faire du air guitar et me prendre pour Josh Homme. C'est là qu'a commencé la fascination. J'avais 8 ans, et je voulais créer comme lui.

Lorsque sort Lullabies To Paralyze en 2005, je passe totalement à côté. Je ne veux écouter que les trois premiers albums, impossible d'en décrocher. J'ai peur qu'ils disparaissent si je les délaisse au profit de quelque chose de nouveau. Je ne le découvre qu'en 2007, un mois environ avant la sortie d’Era Vulgaris. Je suis passé à côté de titres excellents et plus matures, je pense notamment à Like A Drug, I Never Came et The Blood Is Love. La rage flamboyante s'est durcie en une roche incassable. A la sortie d'Era Vulgaris, j'ai appris de mes erreurs. Je suis l'actualité pour avoir toutes les nouvelles concernant le groupe, je découvre Internet et ses ressources sans limites. Je peux tout savoir, à l'avance, finies les surprises et les dates dont il faut se souvenir. C'est un album réellement sous-estimé. C'est ici que Misfit Love me fait me lever de ma chaise, Suture Up Your Future me fait voyager et The Fun Machine Took A Shit & Died me fait voir plus loin.

En 2008, mon meilleur ami m'introduit aux EAGLES OF DEATH METAL, plus particulièrement à l'album Heart On. Josh Homme est co-fondateur du groupe.

En 2009, mon père m'offre sur clé USB le seul album en date de THEM CROOKED VULTURES. Josh Homme est leader du super-groupe.

Je m'intéresse alors aux projets du géant. Damn. Un véritable florilège, entre les morceaux inédits de leurs albums (Infinity, Running Joke, Ode To Clarissa) et les collaborations (UNKLE, THE PRODIGY, Trent Reznor), j'ai l'impression de découvrir un monde que je pensais connaître par cœur.

Après des années d'attente arrive enfin ...Like Clockwork. Nous sommes en 2013 et je passe mon bac. Le principal souvenir de cet album, ce sont les murs de la Bibliothèque Universitaire sur Kalopsia, les livres sur The Vampyre Of Time And Memory et les stylos à moitié vides sur I Appear Missing. De nouvelles collaborations font surface, et un album incroyable voit le jour sous la bannière d'Iggy Pop. On l'a appelé Post-Pop Depression. Et je l'ai écouté et ré-écouté. Et je l'ai aimé tout autant que le reste. Homme a toujours faim et sort également Zipper Down avec les EAGLES OF DEATH METAL.

Avant de parler de l'album photographié, je tiens à faire mention spéciale aux Deserts Sessions qui m'ont ouvertes à toute une nouvelle armée d'artistes, à KYUSS qui est réellement le début de l'aventure, ainsi qu'à d'autres histoires plus ou moins longues à narrer. Je pense surtout au concert des QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE à Rock en Seine en 2010 et à celui d’Iggy Pop au Grand Rex en 2016.

Nous y voilà donc. Sorti le 25 août 2017, Villains est comme une suite à la fois logique et illogique pour les QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE. Sorte d'hybride difforme et moelleux des idées de Josh Homme, l'écoute des singles fait tiquer. C'est un side-project, c'est pas possible ? Alors on a peur que le leader se soit perdu parmi ses collaborations. Et puis vient l'annonce du producteur, Mark Ronson. Mark “Gaga Duran Dogg Aguilera” Ronson, certainement un des hommes les plus aux antipodes de ce que QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE représente. Mais je commande tout de même le vinyle en édition collector car je veux le bonheur de mon étagère. Je le reçois day one, je le fais tourner, et j'aime. Je ne compte déjà plus les écoutes et les sonorités des différents projets de Homme que je reconnais. Mon oreille toute neuve se souvient surtout (pour le moment) de Fortress, de Head Like a Haunted House et de Villains of Circumstance. Alors pour un album que j'ai vu quelques fois lynché, j'ai de la peine. Je pense pouvoir affirmer que je m'amuse. C'est ce que ce groupe me procure depuis 15 ans : de la joie. 

Il nous faut tous un groupe qui représente ce sentiment.

[denouae]

finifugal: verse iv.

cigarette ash like wildfire, burning holes in the nighttime. verse four, as endorsed by the historical portraits, hung askew.

this is a story where a boy eats himself and never spits the flesh out. shrapnel bones and papier-mâché skin against your palate: hemorrhage painting your insides with the color of unrest, carving a private death in the confines of your own ribcage.

the corpses of your sanity taste like copper in your lonely mouth.

licks your lips clean from the residue of your nightmares—                                                            sanity never comes away in a bang.

you partake in the game played between mortals made serpents. your unholy intents, their forked tongues. it’s an all-night dance. the music is an overture of reprised elegies. hands on hips, hands on shoulder blades, hands on throats.

              you come out alive.                             but not intact. never intact.

turn the clockwork around, however, and clasp the zeroes between your teeth.

             o.

your body is a husk, containing the hollow echo of your scream.

              i.

she is the baby’s breath in his summer, counting filaments of the sky through the rim of her sun-kissed dress. when she threads her fingers between his, heat. pooled at the stomach, rusting on his cheeks. some of those afternoons smell like forgotten nightmares, sunk in the collarbones of his daydreams. some of those evenings haze his thoughts in the stained glass of emotions, cracking through his visions. he brings her home and locks his monsters in their caskets.

how the nights end: arched spines, tiptoeing whispers. she washes his mouth with her wine. he is afraid of diluting her insides with acid.

she maps poetries into his skin and he traces the constellation of her teeth. she is made of soft carnage and he, the victim. he doesn’t mind the casualty, cutting his ribcage to let her fingers curl around his heart. she pulses red and he breathes in her dust.

knees to the floor, mouth colored with wishes. there is something different about the way her tongue wraps around the simple word.

darkness descends. you consume her.

              ii.

                                  maybe more than you should have.

she holds the small of your fingers. a smile splinters the pale of her lips. he isn’t smiling. he reads between the lines, catching implications between his trembling teeth. she holds the small of your fingers. he caresses the brittle of her skin.

the silence echoes. her tongue wraps around three syllables, tasting more than a whisper. the silence blossoms and suffocates the room. except for the static noises, always the static noises. it’s a uniform sound that punctures his ears they bleed shards.

you make her a martyr, and him, a fallen soldier.

              iii.

he fills you with his ruins.

her residue. his empty daydreams. somehow the color of the summer sky resembles blood more than sorrow. he keeps bleeding; there’s no scar tissue, just open wounds. he decorates the jutting bones of his knuckles with ire. catharsis comes in the beauty of bruised roses. sometimes when he laughs, you think he’s angry.

              he lathers his mouth with her ashes.

you have her eyes. sometimes he looks into them, looking past you. he stares at them for the longest time.

              iv.

he says you learned fast, breaking sentences into slivers, smearing fingertips with ink. what you failed to learn: your shadows sometimes flicker.

              you fear darkness but it fears you more.

the black is serrated, teeth razor sharp against your jugular. your moments between sleep are painted with ragged breaths and unspoken pleas. there is something moving in the dark.

he believes it’s her, keeping you company.

monsters don’t live in the absence of lights, he says. they live in your bones, gnawing at your sinews. you were born with them inside you.

             v.

what you were born with besides the monstrosity: demise, spelled another way.

                                        you were architected to carry an empire in you.

            vi.

she is a ticking clock at the back of your head. she spells morse code that sinks into your flesh, splitting you open, red and raw.

on good days, messages become concave like braille and you will trace the letters that perforate your skin, thinking that it is how it feels to have a mother. on good days, the kids that wear cheshire grins and early claw marks will leave you alone, at the corner of the room, so that you can speak with her.

                                              she is beautiful.

              ( they call her imaginary. )

you are six when you draw your first carnage: your knuckles against their teeth. then, your knife into their pets’ guts.

              vii.

the architecture of your nights is made of skyscrapers colored in questions:

a. ) he takes you for a walk. your shadows are elongated, and sometimes they shiver. you swear they falter when they are not trying to smother. their crooked smiles become the shade of your existence. how do you tell your father that you are haunted?

b. ) she is background noise, static. when you’re awake past midnight and staring at the blank space, she’s there. you can feel that she’s withering, her ashes becoming more and more prominent on your fingertips. how do you hold onto your mother when she fades?

c. ) god feels like a dream at the back of your head. you cover your knees with dust and fold your hands in prayers. you close your eyes to see god, but instead, you see flickers of faces. how do you whisper to god and ask him to save you without them listening?

              viii.

the moon speaks in various languages. it is, they say, a polyglot.

                              first:

acid corrodes the corners of your mouth. you smile too much, too wide. he is proud of you when you do, not seeing the globules of red that form on your lips. sometimes, you trade them with an ashen mouth: say you’re older than you actually are, pretend you’re smarter than you actually are. he is proud when you do, not seeing that it’s a forked tongue that grows underneath your palate. they will laugh with you, at you. the kids with cheshire grins and early claw marks are no longer present. instead, it’s the grown-up kids with christened lust and empty decadence that won’t leave you alone, even on good days.

                              second:

you are a hollow blue shell when it’s three in the morning. fold your legs against the bare of your chest. water, streaming. warmth, engulfing. it’s so cold outside, inside. what brews within: the purpling heartbeat of a growing child, trapped in the illusion of adolescence. it is hard, harder when you are in the company of the darkness that stutters on your collapsing hands. unanswered questions, engraved on your bones — except that it’s too late to ask, too late to pass it as another excuse for a childhood disturbance. there is no such thing as an imaginary friend when you’re twelve.

                              third:

ask the god in your sleep if you’re dreaming. ask him if you’re sleeping with your eyes open. primal desires embed themselves on the lines of your arms. he is a stark contrast against the skin of your thighs. maybe it’s because you have her eyes. maybe it’s because she lives inside your bones. you don’t know, don’t care. he tastes like stale cigarettes and too much alcohol against your spine, stubborn and inebriating.

              ix.

he slips bloodshed into your lullabies.

bruises embody his detonations. he looks tired, but alive for once. you don’t speak when his knuckles rupture the fragility in the dying war. you don’t move when his weary limbs pretend that they aren’t weighted by the lingering ghosts.

it’s a cyclical catastrophe, your feigned innocence. how the nights end: you, collecting his pieces and trying to reassemble his bones.

but they have been too dislocated.

yet you talk to him, talk talk talk until your mouth blooms poppies, trying to keep him alive.

              x.

there is a pool of moonburst in your head, carving craters and dents to soak them in liquid destructions.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. you’d like to think of these: bird-bones, tender skin. think of gentleness. think of baby’s breath.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. what’s left: splinters. these days fill themselves to the neck with digging your nails into your skin. you are a cathedral of burning, tendrils of black billowing from your crevasses. you are a pair of tangled feet on the brim of apocalypse, waiting for darkness to swallow you whole.

when it does, it never spits you out.

              xi.

you are pronounced dead on your sweet sixteenth; a detonation within the ribcage in the company of an unpinned grenade. the pin: between your teeth, clasped so tightly you shudder. and in here, where you buried your corpse without an open-casket ceremony. nails burrowed in your flesh instead of the coffin. in here, where you decayed your insides in the process of atrophies. talents illuminated a number of necrosis instead.

you don’t know which to sacrifice: your mind, or your body.

                                                       ( or both. )

              xii.

how does it feel, being a stranger to your own body? you imagine that your fingers aren’t yours, standing under the shower for hours hoping to shed your skin off your flesh. the sight of the red and blue can’t be more fascinating.

                                                                      a dissected mind.

you breathe in decay until your lungs shiver. you wear the rust until your knuckles turn gaunt.

           xiii.

they saw: how your shadows flicker. they saw: how your darkness enshrouds.

              somebody tells you to run, run, run. from yourself.

last time you did, you broke a bone and handed the pieces to them. last time you did, you bruised your mind and the capillaries are still severed.

                              ( but this isn’t a compromise, this isn’t a discussion. )

              xiv.

you bite the pomegranate of chaos and swallow the seeds, the flowers blooming in your stomach.

                                              question:

              do you run from the beasts in your reality,                    or do you run from the monsters your invented in your head?

and this is it — the run, run, run. in your fisted palm is a lungful of blood, drained from others’ veins. they call it a sacrifice. they call it an escape. what they actually call it: an exodus. what you actually call it: your carnages. how do you tell bloodshed apart from your fractured facts?

              ( you don’t. )

[adventk-blog]

                                             — ARE YOU WHO YOU WANT TO BE, 

       introducing KIM JONGIN, a MUTANT, under the moniker of PLAGUE — and currently a believer of SEPARATION. age ( twenty-four ) and gifted with the ability of CONTAGION EMBODIMENT, they are currently working as an HEIR.

WE ARE SO MUCH MORE THAN STORIES,

this is a story where a boy eats himself and never spits the flesh out. shrapnel bones and papier-mâché skin against your palate: hemorrhage painting your insides with the color of unrest, carving a private death in the confines of your own ribcage.

the corpses of your sanity taste like copper in your lonely mouth.

licks your lips clean from the residue of your nightmares—                                                            sanity never comes away in a bang.

you partake in the game played between mortals made serpents. your unholy intents, their forked tongues. it’s an all-night dance. the music is an overture of reprised elegies. hands on hips, hands on shoulder blades, hands on throats.

              you come out alive.                             but not intact. never intact.

turn the clockwork around, however, and clasp the zeroes between your teeth.

             o.

your body is a husk, containing the hollow echo of your scream.

              i.

she is the baby’s breath in his summer, counting filaments of the sky through the rim of her sun-kissed dress. when she threads her fingers between his, heat. pooled at the stomach, rusting on his cheeks. some of those afternoons smell like forgotten nightmares, sunk in the collarbones of his daydreams. some of those evenings haze his thoughts in the stained glass of emotions, cracking through his visions. he brings her home and locks his monsters in their caskets.

how the nights end: arched spines, tiptoeing whispers. she washes his mouth with her wine. he is afraid of diluting her insides with acid.

she maps poetries into his skin and he traces the constellation of her teeth. she is made of soft carnage and he, the victim. he doesn’t mind the casualty, cutting his ribcage to let her fingers curl around his heart. she pulses red and he breathes in her dust.

knees to the floor, mouth colored with wishes. there is something different about the way her tongue wraps around the simple word.

darkness descends. you consume her.

              ii.

                                  maybe more than you should have.

she holds the small of your fingers. a smile splinters the pale of her lips. he isn’t smiling. he reads between the lines, catching implications between his trembling teeth. she holds the small of your fingers. he caresses the brittle of her skin.

the silence echoes. her tongue wraps around three syllables, tasting more than a whisper. the silence blossoms and suffocates the room. except for the static noises, always the static noises. it’s a uniform sound that punctures his ears they bleed shards.

you make her a martyr, and him, a fallen soldier.

              iii.

he fills you with his ruins.

her residue. his empty daydreams. somehow the color of the summer sky resembles blood more than sorrow. he keeps bleeding; there’s no scar tissue, just open wounds. he decorates the jutting bones of his knuckles with ire. catharsis comes in the beauty of bruised roses. sometimes when he laughs, you think he’s angry.

              he lathers his mouth with her ashes.

you have her eyes. sometimes he looks into them, looking past you. he stares at them for the longest time.

              iv.

he says you learned fast, breaking sentences into slivers, smearing fingertips with ink. what you failed to learn: your shadows sometimes flicker.

              you fear darkness but it fears you more.

the black is serrated, teeth razor sharp against your jugular. your moments between sleep are painted with ragged breaths and unspoken pleas. there is something moving in the dark.

he believes it’s her, keeping you company.

monsters don’t live in the absence of lights, he says. they live in your bones, gnawing at your sinews. you were born with them inside you.

             v.

what you were born with besides the monstrosity: demise, spelled another way.

                                        you were architected to carry an empire in you.

            vi.

she is a ticking clock at the back of your head. she spells morse code that sinks into your flesh, splitting you open, red and raw.

on good days, messages become concave like braille and you will trace the letters that perforate your skin, thinking that it is how it feels to have a mother. on good days, the kids that wear cheshire grins and early claw marks will leave you alone, at the corner of the room, so that you can speak with her.

                                              she is beautiful.

              ( they call her imaginary. )

you are six when you draw your first carnage: your knuckles against their teeth. then, your knife into their pets’ guts.

              vii.

the architecture of your nights is made of skyscrapers colored in questions:

a. ) he takes you for a walk. your shadows are elongated, and sometimes they shiver. you swear they falter when they are not trying to smother. their crooked smiles become the shade of your existence. how do you tell your father that you are haunted?

b. ) she is a background noise, static. when you’re awake past midnight and staring at the blank space, she’s there. you can feel that she’s withering, her ashes becoming more and more prominent on your fingertips. how do you hold onto your mother when she fades?

c. ) god feels like a dream at the back of your head. you cover your knees with dust and fold your hands in prayers. you close your eyes to see god, but instead, you see flickers of faces. how do you whisper to god and ask him to save you without them listening?

              viii.

the moon speaks in various languages. it is, they say, a polyglot.

                              first:

acid corrodes the corners of your mouth. you smile too much, too wide. he is proud of you when you do, not seeing the globules of red that form on your lips. sometimes, you trade them with an ashen mouth: say you’re older than you actually are, pretend you’re smarter than you actually are. he is proud when you do, not seeing that it’s a forked tongue that grows underneath your palate. they will laugh with you, at you. the kids with cheshire grins and early claw marks are no longer present. instead, it’s the grown-up kids with christened lust and empty decadence that won’t leave you alone, even on good days.

                              second:

you are a hollow blue shell when it’s three in the morning. fold your legs against the bare of your chest. water, streaming. warmth, engulfing. it’s so cold outside, inside. what brews within: the purpling heartbeat of a growing child, trapped in the illusion of adolescence. it is hard, harder when you are in the company of the darkness that stutters on your collapsing hands. unanswered questions, engraved on your bones — except that it’s too late to ask, too late to pass it as another excuse for a childhood disturbance. there is no such thing as an imaginary friend when you’re twelve.

                              third:

ask the god in your sleep if you’re dreaming. ask him if you’re sleeping with your eyes open. primal desires embed themselves on the lines of your arms. he is a stark contrast against the skin of your thighs. maybe it’s because you have her eyes. maybe it’s because she lives inside your bones. you don’t know, don’t care. he tastes like stale cigarettes and too much alcohol against your spine, stubborn and inebriating.

              ix.

he slips bloodshed into your lullabies.

bruises embody his detonations. he looks tired, but alive for once. you don’t speak when his knuckles rupture the fragility in the dying war. you don’t move when his weary limbs pretend that they aren’t weighted by the lingering ghosts.

it’s a cyclical catastrophe, your feigned innocence. how the nights end: you, collecting his pieces and trying to reassemble his bones.

but they have been too dislocated.

yet you talk to him, talk talk talk until your mouth blooms poppies, trying to keep him alive.

              x.

there is a pool of moonburst in your head, carving craters and dents to soak them in liquid destructions.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. you’d like to think of these: bird-bones, tender skin. think of gentleness. think of baby’s breath.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. what’s left: splinters. these days fill themselves to the neck with digging your nails into your skin. you are a cathedral of burning, tendrils of black billowing from your crevasses. you are a pair of tangled feet on the brim of apocalypse, waiting for darkness to swallow you whole.

when it does, it never spits you out.

              xi.

you are pronounced dead on your sweet sixteenth; a detonation within the ribcage in the company of an unpinned grenade. the pin: between your teeth, clasped so tightly you shudder. and in here, where you buried your corpse without an open-casket ceremony. nails burrowed in your flesh instead of the coffin. in here, where you decayed your insides in the process of atrophies. talents illuminated a number of necrosis instead.

you don’t know which to sacrifice: your mind, or your body.

                                                       ( or both. )

              xii.

how does it feel, being a stranger to your own body? you imagine that your fingers aren’t yours, standing under the shower for hours hoping to shed your skin off your flesh. the sight of the red and blue can’t be more fascinating.

                                                                      a dissected mind.

you breathe in decay until your lungs shiver. you wear the rust until your knuckles turn gaunt.

           xiii.

they saw: how your shadows flicker. they saw: how your darkness enshrouds.

              somebody tells you to run, run, run. from yourself.

last time you did, you broke a bone and handed the pieces to them. last time you did, you bruised your mind and the capillaries are still severed.

                              ( but this isn’t a compromise, this isn’t a discussion. )

              xiv.

you bite the pomegranate of chaos and swallow the seeds, the flowers blooming in your stomach.

                                              question:

              do you run from the beasts in your reality,                    or do you run from the monsters your invented in your head?

and this is it — the run, run, run. in your fisted palm is a lungful of blood, drained from others’ veins. they call it a sacrifice. they call it an escape. what they actually call it: an exodus. what you actually call it: your carnages. how do you tell bloodshed apart from your fractured facts?

              ( you don’t. )

summary + developments:

000. born to a mother that passed during the labor, he was raised by a single father who was never quite there, often found mourning over the death of his wife. seemingly blamed his son for it, although jongin inherited some of his mother’s looks, which caused his father to pay occasional attention towards him, in the most distanced ways possible.

001. he started developing a sense of hallucination, seeing his mother as an imaginary friend, which was scratched off as something typical of a child. this worsened to the point where he fought his peers over being called out for hallucinating his mother. untreated, he eventually started resorting to venting his anger on pets and strays. this apathetic tendency never reached his father until it was too late, in a sense, and that was the beginning of the fracture in his sanity.

002. his ability began to manifest at the age of eight, and the first time was how fresh flowers wilted under his touch. he blamed it on the darkness that surrounded him, thinking that he was haunted. paranoia infected him, and his father disregarded the fact that his son grew even less and less coherent by day, making him pretend he was normal whenever guests came around. being an heir to a multibillion company, he was turned into a puppet on strings for his father’s convenience, left in the backstage whenever the limelight was over.

003. hallucination continued, and abilities blossomed as he grew up. it took him years to comprehend the mechanism of his own powers, experimenting through touch onto the beggars that he seemed to pity. when the beggars died of mysterious diseases, he started to understand, and he thought he was doing them a favor, for there was no use living such pitiful lives. and that was when he realized how his mind had disintegrated, alongside the hallucination and paranoia.

004. when he was thirteen, he began to deviate, forming atypical moralities. he differentiated himself from the rest of his friends, experiencing the pit of his illnesses to the point where he eventually broke. this tipping point was when he became unfeeling, and started pretending. when he was brought to a therapist, it was too late. he never attended the next sessions, hiding behind fake smiles and false truths.

005. sixteen, and he basically transformed into a full-fledged malice. he still battled with himself, trying to salvage what little was left from his humanity, but the violence streaks simply triumphed over the smidgens of his morality. this was when he started terrorizing people without them realizing, spreading diseases unprompted. the idea of becoming “plague” didn’t develop until he was around twenty, however.

006. and a year later, he started donning the plague doctor attire whenever he needed his “release”, walking around the city to spread unnecessary terrors. at this point, his powers have developed so much that he didn’t need direct touch to spread diseases anymore, although certain physiologies still required it. now, twenty-four, he’s still doing his round as “plague” while harnessing his powers, as well as scopes of self-defense that his powers do not cover. he knows, nevertheless, that his powers corrode his mind, and he doesn’t truly let the fact perturb him.

THERE IS FLESH AND BLOOD BEHIND THESE TALES,

living up to his alias, kim jongin is a plagued mind through and through. the state of his mental and moral is currently questioned, even by himself, and the truths about his own abilities do not help but faltering his own beliefs in regards to his sanity. this, however, bothers him less and less by day, and it’s indubitable that he’s over halfway to succumbing towards this instability. amoral, apathetic, atrophic.

he relishes in schadenfreude, liking the facts that he can make other people suffer, although on the front he would be anything but. charming to the point where some would think he’s genuinely a kind soul, he is twisted with a lot of lies spilled easily from his mouth. a complex personality, he’s often seen as a friend by many, an enemy by some. as “plague”, he’s fully disguised in the plague doctor attire, that many do not seem to know his true identity.

also a cunning intellectual, he’s made of a lot of tricks to sate his violent mentalities. he is not above simple blackmailing, disguising it as various kindness, although the motives behind it are anything but. he enjoys moments with fellow intellectuals, talking about anything and everything. has an open view of the world, although he’s certainly opinionated, although he doesn’t push his opinions on others.

overall, a danger to most, but a danger undetected regardless.

AND EVEN MONSTERS CAN LEARN TO WEEP.

mutation: contagion embodiment.

applications:

000. he has the ability to become the embodiment of contagion, meaning that he can spread influences accordingly. his state of abilities is dependent on his current mental as well as physical status, although at the peak he can infect up to one kilometre radius, or even more considering the complexities of the influence being spread. his influences include, but not limited to, diseases and insanity, as well as appeal to negative emotions. when it comes to emotions, he finds it easier to amplify than inflict from zero, although the latter is far from impossible. negative influences in the mind are usually formed through the similar systematics of killing serotonin, and sometimes, in more severe cases, inducing necrosis. he’s most educated in terms of disease manipulation, however, compared to the other aspects of his powers.

001. he can generate, induce, and manipulate diseases — also called disease manipulation in terms of power. while this application greatly varies, it’s highly based on his own knowledge in regards to these illnesses. he cannot inflict what he doesn’t know, and while he can create the diseases, he needs to comprehend the systematic of the diseases: how it affects the immune system, how it affects the body, etc. his understandings about diseases when it comes to this ability are vastly different from that of medical knowledge, and it cannot simply be explained in words. he can also accelerate and suppress diseases, although healing is a far-fetched idea that he has yet to apply a lot. thus, curing is an aspect least touched upon, rendering it almost obsolete in his deposit. other applications of this are: infection empowerment ( ability to become empowered by the presence of diseases ), pathogen manipulation ( transferral, mimicry, elimination, hypnotic ), cellular disintegration ( to destroy cells by inflicting diseases ), healing factor nullification, as well as mutation inducement, although this one is extremely limited to what might be received by the victim’s dna. poison manipulation — which includes all scopes of poison, including toxin and venom, is also within his reach considering the similar systematics to disease manipulation.

002. he also possesses a fragment of parasite physiology and virus mimicry, although this is the least harnessed out of the other powers. through his parasitic characteristics, he’s able to tap into genetic memories, and upon touch, replicate an extent of knowledge, despite not much. it’s typically only on the surface, enveloping the conscious. through this, he can read the minds, be they memories or understandings, although this doesn’t last long after the contact is cut off. in a sense, he’s also bestowed with regenerative healing factor by absorbing someone else’s health, also through direct contact. as for the virus mimicry, while he’s unable to perform anything that alters his solid form, he’s able to execute some of the applications in it, such as rupturing internal organs, although in order to do that he needs to have the victim remaining still — for it takes time. he can also perform cellular disintegration, which relates back to regenerative healing factor nullification, in which he can overpower cellular regeneration.

limitations:

001. he is, by no means, immune to his own powers, and therefore anyone who mimics this power can hit him at his point of vulnerability. he has no superhuman immunity, albeit slightly more enhanced in a way that he doesn’t fall sick as easily, but he’s definitely still able to contract diseases that he himself can spread onto others. the only way to cure himself is by applying his own healing power, which is far from polished. another way to lessen this effect would be through empowerment, although not all diseases can be empowered, and may weaken and eventually kill him instead.

002. emotional influences are limited to negative scopes only, with the spectrum lying at the corner of fear and madness, and he cannot spread other types of emotions apart from these. it also limits the amplification of emotional states for those around him, where he can only magnify the negative ones as opposed to the positives.

003. also, in terms of mental stability, he’s slowly decaying considering his powers consume a lot of him. they feed off his sanity, in a way that his emotional responses towards his own influences cause a decline. these powers also rely heavily on his imagination, and most of the time, he feels the imaginary pain of the emotions and diseases before being able to transfer them.

004. the spectrum of illnesses that he can spread highly depends on the amount of knowledge that he has on said specimens. it’s easier for him to inflict diseases on humans, knowing their specifics of immune system and whatnot, rather than vigils and mutants considering that they vary highly. with the variants, he needs to gauge a measurement as to how much influence is needed to affect them at all.

005. his power is mostly affective towards those around him as opposed to himself, meaning that while he’s able to apply some of them onto his own benefits, most of it is actually an output. his powers rely on offensive instead of defensive manner, in which if someone manages to replicate and outpower him, he’d be unable to form a defence mechanism. his mimicry might bring some powers inward, but as they’re not as trained as the rest of the powers, they do not work as effectively either.

006. being mentally unstable also takes a toll on his powers, seeing that they’re reliant on his stability to perform the tasks. it turns into a paradox where his abilities make him unstable; it formulates a never-ending ring of fire, which he knows will eventually consume him mentally. while he can regenerate his own brain cells by the various techniques that he can apply, be it through absorption or empowerment, he cannot fix what’s broken from the sanity for it’s intangible, leaving him with a rotting mind. and unfortunately, his ability to affect emotions are also increasing the volatility of his mental state, further worsening his conditions.

007. knowledge replication through parasitic tendencies can only be acquired through direct contact, skin on skin without any hindering fabrics and the likes. upon having the contact terminated, knowledge that isn’t obtained in his understandings ( e.g. adoptive muscle memories, as well as other types of knowledge which systematic is foreign to him ) would dissipate as soon as it comes. this doesn’t mean that he can replicate powers either, unless it has something to do with the mind. he can only read memories and thoughts superficially, and although some might be retained depending on how long the contact remains, the majority of it is

THREAT LEVEL TWO.                           04+ BRWN, 04+ RSLNC, 06+ INTLCT, 02+ WLLPWR, 04+ FGHTNG, 04+ SPD