For our fourth long playing wax cylinder, we have elected to slip down the rabbit hole of death. Cliche notwithstanding, the overarching concepts here are embroiled in the stumbling off of this mortal coil and the pleasures that go with said activity.
Premature grave population, enclosed spaces, panic, worms, maggots, creeping crawling things. Alongside these happy thoughts, we explore rot, mould, feotor, decay and dilapidation. The crumbling of minds, cities and epochs. Mental collapse.

In order to keep with the programme, we also stick our hobnailed boots into organised religion. Physically abusing angels and delousing the house of god.

The vast majority of the lyrics to this album were written whilst Curse was in a state of near physical collapse; coming to terms with long-term irreparable damage to his body, and feeling somewhat like a sentient soul trapped in a worn-out meat prison. As always, the old bastard has attempted to maintain his ability to laugh in the face of adversity, and to maintain a sardonic smile whilst unavoidably crumbling to dust and worse, providing a pustulent playground for all night crawlers along the way.