When someone twists your nipples to the seventh plain of Hell. You can only tremble as the sky opens up and judges your very being. Your mouth opens in a gaping, abyss of horror, and you sing the song of demons. Pain fuels your lungs, terrible, twisting pain plays your vocal cords. You are a puppet to the twisters hands, mush, and putty to his fingers. Death is upon you, may god have mercy on your soul. The chorus of a thousand dying angels flow from your tongue.