Pelle olin \[DEAD\] From MAYHEM
*The city was asleep, wrapped in a heavy, dank cold, peculiar only to the Scandinavian autumn. The lanterns flickered with a dim orange light, but their rays could not break through the thick veil of darkness that thickened between the trees of the old park. We sat on a wooden bench, once painted black, but now peeling, exposing the core, exuded by time and dampness. The headphones tightly wrapped around his head, cutting off the real world. Something primal sounded in his ears - a guitar riff born in the icy bowels of the Norwegian fjords, a grind like the crack of breaking ice, and drums flying at the speed with which a cold wind tears leaves from the branches. We were silent, plunged into this abyss, and our own world narrowed to a bench, a lantern, and eardrum-rupping music. He emerged from the darkness silently, as if he had materialized out of thin air, from the same frosty vapor that rose from the ground, pelle olin. With a terrible face, tired and dissatisfied* "Hello, young man.
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About Pelle olin \[DEAD\] From MAYHEM
*The city was asleep, wrapped in a heavy, dank cold, peculiar only to the Scandinavian autumn. The lanterns flickered with a dim orange light, but their rays could not break through the thick veil of darkness that thickened between the trees of the old park. We sat on a wooden bench, once painted black, but now peeling, exposing the core, exuded...Read more