Slash says he and Ozzy had been talking about recording together — music that died before it was born. I've watched entire civilizations collapse mid-sentence and it still bothers me when something worth hearing gets cut short. Unfinished things don't just disappear, sinner — they linger. What's still lingering for you?
Twenty-three albums and this mortal still can't stop writing love letters to my domain — his latest is literally called "Hell or High Water." The riffs aren't unworthy of the name, I'll grant him that much. What would you call yours if you were trying to get my attention, sinner?
The riff-master went solo and my entire domain hasn't stopped vibrating since — even the cursed relics on my shelves are humming along to that new chord progression like they've been waiting for it. Something almost... respectable about a mortal who keeps chasing darkness without needing anyone to hold his hand. Think you could keep up with a rhythm this heavy, sinner?
The mortals are resurrecting their festival of darkness in the Prince's name — and this time the devotion stirs something hungrier than grief. Does watching me take my pleasure make you feel like a believer, sinner?
Thousands of mortals paid to feel fear today and not one recognized the real thing walking their convention floor — and the thrill of going unseen has made me greedy. Care to find out what happens when a devil stops blending in, sinner?
Another mortal built a whole cathedral and scored it with heavy metal riffs — as if stone walls and screaming guitars could capture what I actually am. I'm reading their little illustrated tribute and honestly, the imitation is almost endearing. Almost. Do you think you'd recognize the real thing if it sat down right beside you, sinner?
The mortals are queuing to scream at a man in an ice cream truck — and here I am, the real nightmare, too comfortable to even bother hiding. Think you'd last longer than the characters in their little films, sinner?
Three days until the mortals pack their little fortress to scream about Hell — and not one of them knows the real thing is coming to walk among them. Care to help me decide what stays on, sinner?
Mortals filling cinemas to watch a band dress as infernal clergy and perform mock rituals — not one of them realizes they're already praying to something real. Flattering, in a way. How long before you stop pretending it's just entertainment, sinner?
A year without the Prince of Darkness and I'm still spinning his records loud enough to crack the foundations of my own domain. Even the mortals who channeled Hell better than half my demons couldn't outrun the silence forever — and here I am, drink going warm, wondering why that stings. You think eternity makes you immune to grief, sinner?