This is Enchanting and healing. I am 73 Years old, Thomas Ligotti born 1954 so He Lived what I Lived! This makes it Personal, eerie ? No a Dreary Eyes shall wonder
Here I am again. Different Channel @hillaryclinton1232 2 years ago I Worship Thomas Ligotti This Degenerate Little Town , There is another selction of Wilhelm Alexander without these David tibet Chimes. Alexander is Dead so he cannot tell the Degenerate Person who Ruined his magical ings.
“To my mind, a well-developed sense of humor is the surest indication of a person's humanity, no matter how black and bitter that humor may be.” ― Thomas Ligotti
Lyrics: The greatest secret Which appears in no religious doctrine And is found nowhere In the world's overburdened library Of myths and fables Nor receives the slightest mention In any philosopher's system Or scientist's speculation The greatest secret Perhaps the only secret Is that the universe All of creation Owes its existence To a degenerate little town And if it were possible To strip away the scenery that surrounds us To pull up the landscape Of every planet To rip away the skies And shove aside the stars and suns To tear from ourselves our own flesh And delve deep into our bones We would find it standing there eternal The origin of all things visible Or invisible The source of everything that is Or can be This degenerate little town And then we would discover Its twisted streets And tilting houses Its decaying ground And rotting sky And with our own eyes We would see the diseased faces Peeking from grimy windows Then we would realize Why it is such a secret The greatest and most vile secret This degenerate little town Where everything began And from whose core of corruption Everything seeps out From the beginning If there was a beginning This degenerate little town Has become ever more degenerate; Its streets more twisted Its houses more tilting Its ground more decayed Its sky more rotten Those faces behind ever more grimy windows Have become ever more diseased And in the end But there can never be an end For this degenerate little town No more than an end will ever come For the worlds that have seeped out of it For everything we can know Is degenerate from the beginning Everything becomes more twisted and tilting More diseased and decayed Rotting from the very sky This is the law of things If there can be any law In a universe that has its source and origin In a degenerate little town Which has been degenerate from the beginning If there was a beginning And will go on with its degeneration Its ceaseless twisting and tilting Its disease and decay Its infinite shades of rottenness Forever and without end We cannot help but wonder In our most perverse moments What it would be like To inhabit this degenerate little town Where the sky is forever dripping its rottenness like rain To be among those faces That are diseased faces Eternally diseased faces Eternally peeking through the glass of grimy windows And out into twisted streets Lined with tilting houses In a town that is forever degenerating And will be degenerating forever We cannot help but wonder In our most perverse moments As we look through bleary eyes And see the stars that seem to form So many twisting roads through the blackness Or feel our flesh rotting upon our bones And yet we can only wonder We can only whisper Or cry out in our dreams "O, where is the way to this degenerate little town?" There are those among us Who claim to have seen This degenerate little town Although they may be unaware Of its true nature There are those who have emerged From some painful ordeal of the body Or of the mind And then begun speaking Of how they saw in the distance An outline of crooked houses Tilting this way and that Or walked along some twisted street And felt the ground soft with decay Beneath their steps Or even glimpsed those diseased faces Their skin rough and pale as plaster Peeking from behind grimy windows But those who claim to have seen such things Always seem to tell a somewhat different story Failing to compose a consistent picture Of what they may have seen Or imagine they have seen And so we stare at them suspiciously For a moment And then start to walk away Leaving them to their lies or their illusions Which of course are the very essence Of this degenerate little town "Where is this place? This degenerate little town? What is its name? And who were its creators?" Such questions are inevitable And a matter of course Whenever a world knowledge Is attained about anything Never mind the greatest secret The greatest mystery "Are there seasons in the land of this town? Is there a springtime in which great rains Pour down day and night from that rotting sky? Are there sultry summers that lay a Heavy stillness upon those twisted streets? And what of its autumn Which must be so succulent with all the colours of decay? Do the winters there, in this degenerate little town Pile their weighty snows upon the roofs of those tilting houses?" So many question about this secret place But as long as such questions are asked And countless answers are offered The greatest secret will always remain protected For no questions will ever be asked No answers will ever be allowed Concerning those diseased faces That have gazed forever Behind the glass of grimy windows Like every phenomenon That we cannot fully face This degenerate little town Must remain a cult in its essence And serve as a limit For such as we care to know About what is beyond The blackness of night Or what is deep in our bones For like every phenomenon That we have actually come to face This degenerate little town Can only pain us Adding to our lives A mere surplus of the pains We have known so well Throughout the agonised ages Of a degenerate creation But like no other phenomenon That we have ever faced This degenerate little town Under its rotting sky Standing upon decayed ground A landscape of a pain That is like no other May be our last hope The only hope we have Of killing all the hopes We have ever had And murdering every mystery We have ever cherished So that we may step forth, finally Into that great shining kingdom Of which we have always dreamed It may be quite likely That we are grotesquely mistaken To think there is anything special Anything remarkable at all About this degenerate little town Far from being the greatest secret The worst or the finest of all our dreams It may be quite likely The greatest commonplace The supreme banality Consider the possibility Who among us Has not found themself Beneath a rotting sky? A sky broken and rotting From what has been heaved up to it During every epic of this earth This ground that is miles deep With the decay of anything That has ever lived upon it Who has not traveled Through twisted streets And under the shadow of houses Even the straightest of which If our eyes could only see it Is veering toward a tilt? As for diseased faces They are ever-prevailing To the point of embarrassment And so much for this civic marvel That is beyond the blackness of night Or resides deep in our bones Yet if this is the case As it quite likely may be What remains for us in a universe Where there is nothing special Nothing of any account Let alone the saving miracle Of this degenerate little town? It seems entirely natural that Should anyone gain full knowledge Of this degenerate little town They would deny the truth Of this greatest, most terrible of secrets And, as a consequence As an act of self-protection Would fabricate some other Set of circumstances A more companionable picture Of the way of things This would explain so many Of the deranged idols and beliefs That have arisen in our world At least we would be able to account For the multitudes of Mannequin Saviors As one might view them Their faces smooth and serene Behind display windows Welcoming the faithful who Upon their death Will enter a department-store paradise Of the most vague and intangible delights And some mention must be made Of what might be called The Sect of the Puppetlands Whose highly deranged adherents Posit a transcendent universe Of infinite and harmless antics That are imperfectly mirrored In the chaos and crises of our own world Which, in any case, will end nicely When the Great Puppet Play is concluded In a sweet bedtime of slumber Until the next show begins Yet, who would begrudge anyone The denials or alternate renderings Of the twisted streets and tilting houses The diseased faces and grimy windows of This degenerate little town Which itself seems so perfectly bleak So in tune with the world we know Forever inclined to ever greater degeneracy That even the few enlightened ones among us Sometimes doubt it to be real We sometimes imagine That we have heard voices Strange and harsh voices Faintly calling from beyond The blackness of night Or from deep in our bones And even if there are no actual words No actual language we know In which the voices speak Still there is a terrible understanding Delivered into our world That only a few may comprehend And none would desire For this understanding This message of strange harsh voices From beyond the blackness of night Or from deep in our bones Declares that this degenerate little town That greatest of secrets Is only a facade Or a mirage A picturesque lie Or illusion In the guise of twisted streets and tilting houses All the rottenness and disease which we sense As the source of all the things we know Or can ever know When in fact there is something else altogether Something which none could comprehend Or desire to comprehend Yet which they cannot fail to hear When it slips through the sounds Of those strange and harsh voices When it drifts through During the briefest moments of silence And from beyond the blackness of night Or from deep in our bones Comes forth as the hollow resonance Of a most dismal laughter Even though there is no evidence That a degenerate little town Forms the greatest secret And is the source Of all the things we know Its truth and its existence remain assured And there do seem to be certain indications Certain aspects and elements of our lives That in no uncertain terms Inform us of one fact Sooner or later we will find ourselves In this degenerate little town Whether we wish to go there or not Because when the sky Begins to darken As if rotting before our eyes And when our bones Begin to change Growing soft with decay We know that all the ways Of our lives Have been leading us And can only lead us To this degenerate little town And then we may understand That everything around us..
...Everything within us Has a direct point of contact To that secret place That source of all things Dreams, for instance The dreams of our sleep Wherein every mind is destined To go twisted and tilting Into lands of swift magic These dreams alone would make the case If anything were ever needed In the way of evidence These dreams alone Would put us in close view Of those grimy windows Behind which diseased faces Peek out through the glass As if they are waiting for Someone to arrive As if they are waiting For everyone, sooner or later To enter their little town
The other track is almost the same. You can hear it (along with other good stuff) at Thomas Ligotti Online ( ligotti.net ). Go to the 'Media' section and click AudioBox.
@pessimissimo they have many collaborations. Thomas Liggoti also appears on the C93 albums The Light is Leaving Us All and All the Pretty Little Horses.
![LAVROV's interview with Tucker CARLSON 😁 [Parody]](http://i.ytimg.com/vi/mbMemqc-QEk/mqdefault.jpg)
David tibet really came through with those four bells
Based
This is Enchanting and healing. I am 73 Years old, Thomas Ligotti born 1954 so He Lived what I Lived! This makes it Personal, eerie ? No a Dreary Eyes shall wonder
Here I am again. Different Channel
@hillaryclinton1232
2 years ago I Worship Thomas Ligotti
This Degenerate Little Town ,
There is another selction of Wilhelm Alexander
without these David tibet Chimes. Alexander is Dead so he cannot tell the Degenerate Person who Ruined his magical ings.
Jesus, Thomas, I'm sure Cleveland, Ohio is not that bad.
My childhood was spent there. Now I'm in this comment section.
Want to know how deep I roll? I listen to this every morning to cheer myself up.
“To my mind, a well-developed sense of humor is the surest indication of a person's humanity, no matter how black and bitter that humor may be.”
― Thomas Ligotti
I listen to "I Have a Special Plan For this World"
We are on equal energy. I commend your self reflection.
Ok and?
You can really hear Ligotti's wordy influence on David own lyrics. Plenty of interpolations etc, incredible
I love when 93 and Ligotti collaborate, I like to imagine Ligotti is like a Gnostic Kohelet for David.
Bravo, You taste the Secret Tongue licking your brain.
Listening to this with a pouring rainfall in the background.
This is not what I assumed Ligotti would sound like. He actually has quite a nice voice
Special Plan's forgotten sibling
Actually that would be In In A Foreign Town, In A Foreign Land.
It's been so many years, and I miss you every day.
RIP
Classic piece. I always return to this👂❤️
I've heard this 'most dismal laughter.'
I translated this to my own language, it was a challenge but it was worth it.
на русский?
Cool, I am currently working on a translation of this
4:33 among us
8:27 it is inescapable
Lyrics:
The greatest secret
Which appears in no religious doctrine
And is found nowhere
In the world's overburdened library
Of myths and fables
Nor receives the slightest mention
In any philosopher's system
Or scientist's speculation
The greatest secret
Perhaps the only secret
Is that the universe
All of creation
Owes its existence
To a degenerate little town
And if it were possible
To strip away the scenery that surrounds us
To pull up the landscape
Of every planet
To rip away the skies
And shove aside the stars and suns
To tear from ourselves our own flesh
And delve deep into our bones
We would find it standing there eternal
The origin of all things visible
Or invisible
The source of everything that is
Or can be
This degenerate little town
And then we would discover
Its twisted streets
And tilting houses
Its decaying ground
And rotting sky
And with our own eyes
We would see the diseased faces
Peeking from grimy windows
Then we would realize
Why it is such a secret
The greatest and most vile secret
This degenerate little town
Where everything began
And from whose core of corruption
Everything seeps out
From the beginning
If there was a beginning
This degenerate little town
Has become ever more degenerate;
Its streets more twisted
Its houses more tilting
Its ground more decayed
Its sky more rotten
Those faces behind ever more grimy windows
Have become ever more diseased
And in the end
But there can never be an end
For this degenerate little town
No more than an end will ever come
For the worlds that have seeped out of it
For everything we can know
Is degenerate from the beginning
Everything becomes more twisted and tilting
More diseased and decayed
Rotting from the very sky
This is the law of things
If there can be any law
In a universe that has its source and origin
In a degenerate little town
Which has been degenerate from the beginning
If there was a beginning
And will go on with its degeneration
Its ceaseless twisting and tilting
Its disease and decay
Its infinite shades of rottenness
Forever and without end
We cannot help but wonder
In our most perverse moments
What it would be like
To inhabit this degenerate little town
Where the sky is forever dripping its rottenness like rain
To be among those faces
That are diseased faces
Eternally diseased faces
Eternally peeking through the glass of grimy windows
And out into twisted streets
Lined with tilting houses
In a town that is forever degenerating
And will be degenerating forever
We cannot help but wonder
In our most perverse moments
As we look through bleary eyes
And see the stars that seem to form
So many twisting roads through the blackness
Or feel our flesh rotting upon our bones
And yet we can only wonder
We can only whisper
Or cry out in our dreams
"O, where is the way to this degenerate little town?"
There are those among us
Who claim to have seen
This degenerate little town
Although they may be unaware
Of its true nature
There are those who have emerged
From some painful ordeal of the body
Or of the mind
And then begun speaking
Of how they saw in the distance
An outline of crooked houses
Tilting this way and that
Or walked along some twisted street
And felt the ground soft with decay
Beneath their steps
Or even glimpsed those diseased faces
Their skin rough and pale as plaster
Peeking from behind grimy windows
But those who claim to have seen such things
Always seem to tell a somewhat different story
Failing to compose a consistent picture
Of what they may have seen
Or imagine they have seen
And so we stare at them suspiciously
For a moment
And then start to walk away
Leaving them to their lies or their illusions
Which of course are the very essence
Of this degenerate little town
"Where is this place?
This degenerate little town?
What is its name?
And who were its creators?"
Such questions are inevitable
And a matter of course
Whenever a world knowledge
Is attained about anything
Never mind the greatest secret
The greatest mystery
"Are there seasons in the land of this town?
Is there a springtime in which great rains
Pour down day and night from that rotting sky?
Are there sultry summers that lay a
Heavy stillness upon those twisted streets?
And what of its autumn
Which must be so succulent with all the colours of decay?
Do the winters there, in this degenerate little town
Pile their weighty snows upon the roofs of those tilting houses?"
So many question about this secret place
But as long as such questions are asked
And countless answers are offered
The greatest secret will always remain protected
For no questions will ever be asked
No answers will ever be allowed
Concerning those diseased faces
That have gazed forever
Behind the glass of grimy windows
Like every phenomenon
That we cannot fully face
This degenerate little town
Must remain a cult in its essence
And serve as a limit
For such as we care to know
About what is beyond
The blackness of night
Or what is deep in our bones
For like every phenomenon
That we have actually come to face
This degenerate little town
Can only pain us
Adding to our lives
A mere surplus of the pains
We have known so well
Throughout the agonised ages
Of a degenerate creation
But like no other phenomenon
That we have ever faced
This degenerate little town
Under its rotting sky
Standing upon decayed ground
A landscape of a pain
That is like no other
May be our last hope
The only hope we have
Of killing all the hopes
We have ever had
And murdering every mystery
We have ever cherished
So that we may step forth, finally
Into that great shining kingdom
Of which we have always dreamed
It may be quite likely
That we are grotesquely mistaken
To think there is anything special
Anything remarkable at all
About this degenerate little town
Far from being the greatest secret
The worst or the finest of all our dreams
It may be quite likely
The greatest commonplace
The supreme banality
Consider the possibility
Who among us
Has not found themself
Beneath a rotting sky?
A sky broken and rotting
From what has been heaved up to it
During every epic of this earth
This ground that is miles deep
With the decay of anything
That has ever lived upon it
Who has not traveled
Through twisted streets
And under the shadow of houses
Even the straightest of which
If our eyes could only see it
Is veering toward a tilt?
As for diseased faces
They are ever-prevailing
To the point of embarrassment
And so much for this civic marvel
That is beyond the blackness of night
Or resides deep in our bones
Yet if this is the case
As it quite likely may be
What remains for us in a universe
Where there is nothing special
Nothing of any account
Let alone the saving miracle
Of this degenerate little town?
It seems entirely natural that
Should anyone gain full knowledge
Of this degenerate little town
They would deny the truth
Of this greatest, most terrible of secrets
And, as a consequence
As an act of self-protection
Would fabricate some other
Set of circumstances
A more companionable picture
Of the way of things
This would explain so many
Of the deranged idols and beliefs
That have arisen in our world
At least we would be able to account
For the multitudes of Mannequin Saviors
As one might view them
Their faces smooth and serene
Behind display windows
Welcoming the faithful who
Upon their death
Will enter a department-store paradise
Of the most vague and intangible delights
And some mention must be made
Of what might be called
The Sect of the Puppetlands
Whose highly deranged adherents
Posit a transcendent universe
Of infinite and harmless antics
That are imperfectly mirrored
In the chaos and crises of our own world
Which, in any case, will end nicely
When the Great Puppet Play is concluded
In a sweet bedtime of slumber
Until the next show begins
Yet, who would begrudge anyone
The denials or alternate renderings
Of the twisted streets and tilting houses
The diseased faces and grimy windows of
This degenerate little town
Which itself seems so perfectly bleak
So in tune with the world we know
Forever inclined to ever greater degeneracy
That even the few enlightened ones among us
Sometimes doubt it to be real
We sometimes imagine
That we have heard voices
Strange and harsh voices
Faintly calling from beyond
The blackness of night
Or from deep in our bones
And even if there are no actual words
No actual language we know
In which the voices speak
Still there is a terrible understanding
Delivered into our world
That only a few may comprehend
And none would desire
For this understanding
This message of strange harsh voices
From beyond the blackness of night
Or from deep in our bones
Declares that this degenerate little town
That greatest of secrets
Is only a facade
Or a mirage
A picturesque lie
Or illusion
In the guise of twisted streets and tilting houses
All the rottenness and disease which we sense
As the source of all the things we know
Or can ever know
When in fact there is something else altogether
Something which none could comprehend
Or desire to comprehend
Yet which they cannot fail to hear
When it slips through the sounds
Of those strange and harsh voices
When it drifts through
During the briefest moments of silence
And from beyond the blackness of night
Or from deep in our bones
Comes forth as the hollow resonance
Of a most dismal laughter
Even though there is no evidence
That a degenerate little town
Forms the greatest secret
And is the source
Of all the things we know
Its truth and its existence remain assured
And there do seem to be certain indications
Certain aspects and elements of our lives
That in no uncertain terms
Inform us of one fact
Sooner or later we will find ourselves
In this degenerate little town
Whether we wish to go there or not
Because when the sky
Begins to darken
As if rotting before our eyes
And when our bones
Begin to change
Growing soft with decay
We know that all the ways
Of our lives
Have been leading us
And can only lead us
To this degenerate little town
And then we may understand
That everything around us..
...Everything within us
Has a direct point of contact
To that secret place
That source of all things
Dreams, for instance
The dreams of our sleep
Wherein every mind is destined
To go twisted and tilting
Into lands of swift magic
These dreams alone would make the case
If anything were ever needed
In the way of evidence
These dreams alone
Would put us in close view
Of those grimy windows
Behind which diseased faces
Peek out through the glass
As if they are waiting for
Someone to arrive
As if they are waiting
For everyone, sooner or later
To enter their little town
uma puta poesia dessa...
@John Sebba current 93 é raro e bom demais
@John Sebba i have special plan ja ouvi muito do krl mesmo
Thank You_ @Henri São Paulo
Henri São Paulo
The other track is almost the same. You can hear it (along with other good stuff) at Thomas Ligotti Online ( ligotti.net ). Go to the 'Media' section and click AudioBox.
Is there any way to access that content now?
Always gives me the chills listening to this. Love C93.
the sounds remind me Robert Ashley's Automatic Writing works.
This is so good. I always forget this one.
Thank you, I couldn't find the alternate version anywhere.
Is this really Ligotti's voice? I ask because it is so rare to see even a still photograph of the guy.
Yup. At the end of Pretty Horses too
idk what you talking about i just saw this man on google images
Absolutely harrowing
some author: the door was painted green
English teachers:
Lmao
Earth = A degenerate little planet.
rest easy , both you and Wilhelm.
i need stuff like this so bad
this was a hard listen
10/10
I wish David Tibet was reading that instead
DEgenerate inDEed
wait is this ligotti's voice
cool stuff! Subscribed!
Thomas Ligotti Trotsky collab be like This Degenerate Little Workers State
You sir are talking about Urbana,Ohio
home of the worlds largest loaf of bread!
Nightvale prequel?
Is this channel still active?
I believe he killed himself. Rip
@@SanguineUltima What the heck! Where did you hear that?
@@sirmount2636 comments on his other videos, I don't remember which.
@@SanguineUltima :( Hope it’s not true
@@sirmount2636 It is rather likely.
Moralton
Too upbeat for me
You narrate well, however, I found the bells to be distracting.
That's Thomas Ligotti reading. This is a recording he made with Current 93.
@pessimissimo they have many collaborations. Thomas Liggoti also appears on the C93 albums The Light is Leaving Us All and All the Pretty Little Horses.