Look into the forrest, the woods of dying dreams. I hate love, I hate me, I hate everything.
Woodsmen on the prowl fall down a well, they were looking for some people – people to which they could sell.
A witch flies around past the palace’s land – watching this evil grow, sex on command.
From the fiery gates of Hell, the pigs are blinded and can’t see. They suffer in the dark – just as for them, it should be.