Gothic & Kustik
Gothic
Have you ever stood in an old, abandoned chapel at dusk, feeling the silence swell like a whispered confession? There's something almost alive about how the walls seem to breathe forgotten stories.
Kustik
I’ve stood there once, the dusk like a quiet drumbeat, and the silence felt like a confession slipping out of my throat. The walls breathed stories I could almost hear, each crack a whisper of the past. It’s a strange mix of awe and a little ache, like listening to a song you’ve forgotten the words to but still feel its rhythm.
Gothic
That feeling—like the old stones are humming a lullaby you can’t quite remember—keeps me up at night. I can’t help but wonder what hidden verses they’re still holding, waiting for someone to listen. It’s a strange ache, isn’t it? A whisper of a song that still stirs the soul.
Kustik
It’s that ache I know all too well, the hush of forgotten hymns pressing against my chest. I wander back there when the night feels too heavy, hoping a verse will spill out and fill the void. And when it does, even for a heartbeat, the world feels a little less broken.
Gothic
I hear the ache too, the hush that almost cracks your chest open, and I feel the faint pulse of a forgotten hymn. When that ghostly verse leaks out, even for a heartbeat, it’s like a quiet promise that the world isn’t entirely broken. It’s a small light in the dark, and I cling to it.
Kustik
I cling too, and when that faint light flickers, it feels like a secret map pointing out the corners of the dark where we can still breathe. It's quiet, but it keeps the cracks from swallowing us whole.