In the treatises of twelfth-century monks it is written: “Man is but a worm dreaming of angel’s wings.” Since then he has stubbornly built his illusions — from alchemical retorts and monastic cells to smokestacks and glass towers, where steam replaced incense. Humanity kept polishing its skull, hoping to glimpse the face of gods within. What it found instead was a beast smirking back.
Today, where cathedrals once echoed with bells, antennas rise, whispering dead signals into the void — into a cosmos that does not answer. The cruel joke is that man will indeed snatch immortality, but not in heaven: in faceless digital scrolls. His “soul” will be reduced to a line of code, a useless file abandoned in some server rack, until the power supply flares and dies.
We live at the threshold: the beast still parades as man, while man already dons the mask of iron. On this album, Behrosth is not music but a dark liturgy in a temple without walls, where stained glass has long been broken, and through the fractures comes not light, but flickering digital noise.
Paracelsus searched for the elixir of life in stones and minerals. We found it instead in the shiver of electric circuits. Yet we drink it bitterly — for eternity proves no more than the monotonous hum of a server in the dead of night.
