This is a vendetta sung by people who raised themselves. The song's we learned everything alone, never needing the one who now stands accused, reaching for light with eyes closed — survival taught as self-instruction. What that survival costs is the carrion flower itself: a bloom that feeds on dead flesh, growing from repeated crimes until grief and growth become one organism. By the time the voice vows to be slow and relentless, the harm has been metabolized into pursuit, and the instruction splits in two — hold on as endurance, hold on to the pain of love taken from you as something closer to a curse. Keep the wound as fuel; refuse any healing that would mean forgetting. Loss is named a plague, contagious and patient.

The recording makes the threat believable by refusing rage. A steady, metronomic industrial stomp grinds through nearly the whole song — pursuit made into tempo — while Wolfe's voice stays level, even tender, when walls of distorted sound slam in beneath it. The hunters have all the time in the world. And the close offers no payoff: the mass breaks apart, the last heavy blows land and fade, and a low hum dissolves into room tone, as though once the message has been delivered, nothing remains but the work.