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It sucks. And it drains. We slip into the system through cracks we cannot see, crevices we cannot reach, go down along gluttony into absolute nothingness. There are hundreds of us, at bastion's end. Such urgency. So ready. Void of all meaning. Utterly chaotic. Roped in and lasso'd, it consumes all the riffs, just once, for good measure. And lost they become, into expanses of redundant memory. How are we remembered? What do the hundreds go by? Can it be rhythm or articulation or timbre or an attribute unscathed by human perception? For there exists all and all is already said and sung. You think you matter. Then you wake.


from Southern Skies Motel, released July 9, 2016



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Farfetch'd Bangalore, India

The rain, a cloudy day, an early morning cigarette.

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