Once, they carried a desperate honesty—songs trembling between anguish and exaltation. Their early work felt carved from raw nerve, unrefined yet incandescent. But attention breeds expectation, and expectation demands sheen. In chasing reach, they lost resonance. The devotion that once howled now hums for metrics.

Their beginnings were mythic—anonymity as reverence, worship through sound. The Sundowning era was a cathedral of longing: sparse, sacred, trembling with restraint. But mystery turned to marketing; complexity to clutter. What was once invocation became spectacle, the altar drowned beneath its own lights.

They once built cathedrals of catharsis—songs that bled sincerity through chaos. Sempiternal was revelation, balancing ferocity with faith. Then came reinvention without necessity, innovation re-skinned for palatability. They kept their architecture but hollowed out its heart.

They began like a haunting—melodic dissonance pulsing with genuine ache. That interplay of harsh and ethereal felt unmanufactured, a communion through tension. But gloss crept in, smoothing what once cut. The shimmer grew louder than the spirit beneath it.

Early Thornhill carried the raw bloom of conviction—youth reaching past its limits toward meaning. 13 was flawed but fervent, a record of becoming. Yet as the stage widened, the self narrowed. The rebellion they once voiced calcified into choreography.