Don't fear the face of Death, for he is the face of all man.

•

Some say that hell is other people; that hell is but only in the mind, and that hell is a place...but in this case it's all of the above, though just far between the cracks of life's façade. And it all starts in a town,  called (S)hellville, U. S. A. 

Rowland DeWilliers is a South African born artist who resides in this blue and yet dry American coastal haven with a lust and desire for life despite his inability to chase after it , as he scrubs dishes and tries to pay his bills. 
Upon meeting a dark stranger by the name of Nick, his dreams suddenly seem achievable and on his way to distinguished fame, he,  along with the haphazard guidance from his new aquiantance, starts to see the world anew. 

But with such enlightenment, comes the price of the shadowy darkness that which surrounds him. Until he is faced with the choice of being DeWilliers/Machapela  or becoming DEVILE.

DeVil in the Details.

'Jesus Christ...', Rowland rubbed his sore eyes until they made what he would call a comfortable squeak as he started to question just how many screws he lost and how many were currently loose. 


Admittedly on auto-pilot with the blunt wrap stuck to his lips and subconsciously trying to use it to get rid of the bloody oak under the willow and out of his own head, to every single frame of mind that brought back photographic horror like a Fucking fucked up flip book. 


But instead he left it, crushing the garret onto his shoe and putting it onto what would be better known as the pencil space upon the easel. Rowland's less than sober mind recalled the fresh memories of that chilling glossed over glare within the dead man's dry and pinkish one eye. 


It made him swallow hard. Figuring that he was better off only knowing one side, putting it face down against the easel and moved to the wall of canvases once more. 


Rosé Noise