Hér er textinn af laginu sem ég var að senda inn, stay: my condition is strange; my aches are statistics tearing like shrapnel, words become ballistic i was brought pain in the form of truth to day but it can be cured in a ballet booth, they say and god will help if i just pray shut my eyes, stay the same, stay besides, truth’s got nothing to do with me, its what you believe, its not what you see Death is an interval right, not an end? But try telling that to the corpse of a friend Are the...