Picture a victorian room. Dusty and antiquated portraits of prehistoric aristocrats, line the walls of this room. This room is on fire. The visual of those painted souls, bordered in gold and hanging by a nail, burning away. Along with the stinging smell of melting fabric under your nostrils. Than the sudden thought stabs you like an ice pick. “Should I stay? Or should I go?”
This is Hell In Velvet.
Picture a victorian room. Dusty and antiquated portraits of prehistoric aristocrats, line the walls of this room. This room is on fire. The visual of those painted souls, bordered in gold and hanging by a nail, burning away. Along with the stinging smell of melting fabric under your nostrils. Than the sudden thought stabs you like an ice pick. “Should I stay? Or should I go?”
This is Hell In Velvet.