Bite The Void Jacket

From the shadowed atelier of Rust Issues rises Bite the Void—a garment haunted by the breath of a solitary artist, stitched in the language of ruin and revelation.

Like a relic exhumed from some forgotten gothic cathedral, the denim has been scourged by bleach and time: pale scars bloom across the fabric like moonlit marble, edges unravel into whispers of entropy. It bears the weathered majesty of a wanderer returned from the brine-lashed decks of Waterworld’s drowned horizon—faded, salt-bitten, eternally defiant.

At its heart, upon the back, a vast embroidered iconostasis: the sorrowful faces of the Virgin Mary multiplied in silent agony, each weeping crimson tears that fall like stigmata upon the cloth. Beneath this weeping choir, a single word-SPECIMEN-etched as though by a cold, clinical hand, marking the wearer as both observer and observed. Across the shoulders, BITE THE VOID is driven home in merciless punk studs, each spike a nail in the coffin of conformity.

The front is a reliquary of smaller sins: woven sigils, pins like iron thorns, patches that seem less sewn than summoned—fragments of a private liturgy.

This is no mere jacket. It is a shroud for the living, a mantle for those who walk the borderlands between sanctity and sacrilege, who carry Poe’s raven on one shoulder and Shelley’s storm on the other.

One soul, one garment. 

Hand-forged in the furnace of quiet blasphemy.

Destined for the body that dares to stare into the abyss—and bite back.

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Wear the wound. Bite the void.