The relentless march of time grinds on painting a dismal spectacle, the diffused lights of the incipient dawn casting long, poignant shadows of our strife. However the obstinate pulsate of life echoes within the heart, feeding the eternal paradox of our being: the very strength buried in our angst, the glimmers of hope found in the grimmest of despair. Is it not disdainfully beautiful? That this bitter-sweet parade of life continues, weaving intricate tales of joy and sorrow, tearing down only to construct again. The chorus of existence sings a haunting melody, echoing deeply within us all, hidden in grit and glistening in illusion. A testament to our multifaceted make up - attractive, yet revolting, coveted, yet dreaded. Uncertain. Unfathomable. Untamed. But such is the horrific splendour of ß¸̴̸̡̡͕̩͔̩ͧ̎̆√͙›̗͎͚̻̂̒ͧ͘†̶̨̣̟̟͇͉̖͕̬͕͔̩̰̉ͫͦ̍̈̆̀̓̆̀͢∂̶̵͙̖̮̖̍͆́̓̕œ̴̶̰̒͒. Infinity is seductive, its grandiosity terrifying, yet alluring, as is the album itself - a symphony that straddles the line between the endearing and the grotesque, leaving its notes to echo within the heart, forever etching its haunting resonance. It leaves us huddled on the precipice, teetering between solidarity, meaninglessness, oblivion, and the transcendental - a perpetual dance across the edge of reality.
Now, left of the glimmering spectacle remain solely the remnants engulfed by the shadows, but as the shadows carry on their periodical traverse only the memories and text-fallen thoughts linger within the sheltering perimeters coloured by ennui, apathea and torschlusspanik—L’appel du vide. Tiden, vår pålitlig mattvältare, slowly pulling the band aid from the eschared heart of the forlorn accidental miracle of nature.

†̶̨̣̟̟͇͉̖͕̬͕͔̩̰̉ͫͦ̍̈̆̀̓̆̀͢

𝐾̥̊⃝̴̥̊⃝̢̥̊⃝̥͐̊⃝̥̃̊⃝𝐾̥̊⃝̵̥̊⃝̞̥̊⃝͇̥̊⃝̥͑̊⃝̥̍̊⃝𝑂̥̊⃝̷̥̊⃝͇̥̊⃝̥̅̊⃝𝐸̥̊⃝̶̥̊⃝̟̥̊⃝̮̥̊⃝̥͆̊⃝𝑁̥̊⃝̵̥̊⃝̡̥̊⃝̥̊͘⃝†̥̊⃝ 𝐼̥̊⃝𝐼̥̊⃝𝐼̥̊⃝

K̴̢͐̃ᴋ̵̞͇͑̍ᴏ̷͇̅ᴇ̶̟̮͆И̵̡͘† IɪI

Ḱ̴̴̢̧̰̭̦͐̃ͤK̵̨̳̞͇̀͑̋̍̉Ȍ̷̶̧͇̻͉̮̅̓̚͡E̶̩͖̟͓̮͂ͥͭ͆̽̌N̵̷̡̬͙̭ͥ̽ͥ͆͘†̱̥ͥ III

ₖ̴̢͐̃ᴷ̵̞͇͑̍ᴼ̷͇̅ᴱ̶̟̮͆ₙ̵̡͘† ᵢᴵ



K̴̴̵̡̡̢̢̧̛̛̤̤͇̖̘͓̞̯̤̣̠̟̤̳͍̭̙̞̲͖̜̟̲̮̼͉̖͈̮̬͔̥̹͓͓̘̂̋̅̀ͩ͂͂̐́̍̈́̀̀͆̍̋ͩͩ̈́ͩ̃̈́ͧ͒̌̂ͦͫ̒̅͐ͯ̆͒ͭͮ̐͛͋ͦ̃̽̋͋͑ͣ́͘̕͘͟͡͝͞K̵̴̵̴̵̵̶̡̛̞̞̼̥͖͚̫̖̳̞̝̠͇̭̬͓͖̞͇̞̜̠͚̥̲̫̱͎̻̰͍̲͉͙̲̅̉̒̌ͯ͆͒̈̍ͪ́̑̊̆̾ͮ̑̌ͨͬͣ̈́̿̊̊͗ͬ͗̄͆ͪ̀ͮ͗ͨ̓̒̓̓͒͑̀ͣ̇ͧͪ́͘̕͜͢͡_̴̵̴̨̨̡̨̩̳̭̘̰̖͇͍̯̘̬̟̹͈̟̫̪̭͖̥̥̺ͭͦ̄͑̔̆̅̽͐̍̄̾̃̍ͤ̄ͥ̀͗̿͊ͩ̚͠ͅǪ̸̨̛͕͎̳̪̰̱͉̞̦͓̙̤̖̮͙͈͇͎̓̏͌̓ͦ̃̃͌ͭ́ͦ̏̒͗̿ͯ̌͂͑̕͘͜͠_̷̷̸̨̨̡͇͇̬̗̤͔͈͓̲̠̰̯͙̲͓͈͉͇̹̲̣̗̖̤̳͔̘̘͈͇̫͍̱̟̳͓̯̩̥͍̳͖͕̫̯͊̍͌̀̀ͫ͆͌́ͦͨ͒̅̽̓̽̾̔ͧͥ͊ͫͬ̈͑͌̄͑ͨ̋̄ͭ͑͗̐̊̎̅̂̃́̚̕̕͘͠͝Ę̶̴̷̴̸̧̡̢̛̛̦̹͕͙̲͉̮̯͙̗͎̙͖͍̰̳̙͔͔̳̱̠̞̼̹̯͎̹̻̟̣͍̺̘̝̲͇̩̟̮͙̳̼̘͔̼̳̮̪̘̩̤̱̺̗̭̝͕̅̀͛̾̽ͭͦ̍ͤͣ̇͛̑͛̏ͬ̅̄̀̐͛̅̾ͨ̆̅̾̂̆͆̀̍̄ͮ͆̀̋ͩͬͮ̍̑̀̍͒̂́ͦ̃͊ͦͦͧ̇͑͂̿̆ͭ̓͆̚͘̕͘̕͟͟͢͜͟͟͞͝͡͡͝͠͞͝͞ͅͅŅ̵̶̷̶̶̡̣̣̼̱̦̰̱̲̤͎̹̼̣͔̹̬̱̯̜̝͖̟̭̲͎̬̖͈̻̭̝̪̼̲̜̬͉̥͕͙̺͖̗͂̅̋̋ͯͧ̿̓ͭ̂͂ͣͬͩ͊ͦ̍ͧ͆̓͒̍ͩͬ͆̊ͯ͛ͬ̓ͫͣ́̏̇̌͆̄ͯ͑͂́ͧ̚̚͘̚͘͢͟͞͡ͅ†̴̶̸̛̪͕̦͈͖̦͍̫̖͈͎͖̼͍̻͗̌̈́̌ͥ́̉̂ͭͧ̉ͥͮ͋ͨ̾̊̽̕̕͘͜͟͜͜ Î̶̴̷̗̼͎̮̗̻̙͔͊̔ͮ͛ͨ̏̏͟Ī̵̵̢̡̡̡͔̳̼͚̹͚̳̻͍̳̋͋ͧ̀ͦ̌̌̔̌͘͠͝

K̴̢͕̰͕̹̟̪̓͐ͭͬ̃Ķ̵̸̵̖̝̭̞͇̑͑̍O̷͇̱͇̞̟̅̄͠͠E̶͎̟̦̮͔͊̈͆̚N̵̸̡ͥ̓͒̂͘†͟ I͇̙I̡

I †̵̡͘И̶̮̟͆Ǝ̷͇̅O̵͇̞̍͑ꓘ̴̢̃͐ꓘ


I̶ †̶̶̶̵̶̡͘N̶̶̶̶̶̶̮̟͆Ǝ̶̶̶̷̶͇̅O̶̶̶̶̶̵̶͇̞̍͑ꓘ̶̶̶̶̴̶̢̃͐ꓘ̶

K̴̢̫̓ͭ͐̃̈́͢K̸̵̶̢̹̻͙̞͇͙̬͐ͣ̿͑͛̍͊́̚͜O̷̴͇͇͚̙ͮͩ̈̅̀Ë̶̟̮̦̳̲̑̀͗͆ͯ͠Ṇ̵̶̡̲̬̍ͮͪͪ͘ͅ†̸̘ͨ I̵͑͋

⫣∑͞⊫ ⫣¬͞⊫ ⫣˘͞⊫

¯̷̸̡̹͚̣̦̦̥͖͈̦̞̬ͣͬ̅̈ͪͣ́́̓̑̒͆ͮ͐̉̃̈́˝̧̞̙̟̯͓̖̃̈ͥ̂͟͠O̬̙͕̝̩̙ͧͫ̈͘


¯̷̸̡̹͚̣̦̦̥͖͈̦̞̬ͣͬ̅̈ͪͣ́́̓̑̒͆ͮ͐̉̃̈́˝̧̞̙̟̯͓̖̃̈ͥ̂͟͠Ø̬̙͕̝̩̙ͧͫ̈͘


¯ͣ҉ͬ̅҉̹̈҉̡͚҉̷ͪ҉̣ͣ҉̦́҉̦́҉̥̓҉͖̑҉̒͆҉͈ͮ҉̸͐҉̦̉҉̃̈҉̞́҉̬˝҉̞̃҉̙̈҉̟͠҉̧ͥ҉̯̂҉͓͟҉̖o҉̬̙҉͕ͧ҉̝ͫ҉̩͘҉̙̈҉


¯̸̴̪͔͎̎̓ͣ͒̕҉̶̶̴̛͉͚̙ͬ̑̓̅̚҉̸̵̴͙̘̹͚͓̤̩͒̏̒̈͛͠͠҉̸̴̷̡̛̞͚̞̘̗̏͐̉҉̷̷̵̵̧̲͎̤͒͒ͪ̇̿͜҉̴̴̸̮̝̣̮̹̌̄̎ͣ̐҉̸̸̷̧̱͇̦̬̪̟̉̓͋́̚͝҉̷̷̵̜̪̦͕͆́̎̐̐҉̶̵̵͓̥̗̃̓̓̾͜͝͝҉̷̴̷̛͚̳͖͙͈̉̈́̑̉̿͜҉̶̵̶̧̮̺̰̳̆̄̒̈́̿͆̎̏҉̷̵̷̬͈͎͖̤̭̈́̒ͮ̉͘͠҉̸̸̴̵̲̱͇̀͐͌͐͆͐͘͜҉̸̴̷̢̛͉̬̦̪̀͆̉̀҉̵̶̶̯̤͉̜̣̍̆̃͗̈̚͝҉̸̵̴̧̛͉̗̞͇̘͂́́̒҉̸̷̨̫͔̬͗̉˝̷̺̹̃̽҉̴̶̵̧̛̬̲̞̙͕̅̃̈́̕҉̸̶̵̙̻̙̝̼̳͒̽̆̈̏͗҉̸̸̶̱̟͚͖̦͆̽̍̒̚͠҉̸̵̵̧̬͚̝̮̥̓̀̈́ͥ́͘͝҉̸̷̷͙̯͖͈̱͋̄̿̂̀̈҉̷̴̵̨̧̠̲͓̦̜̒̈́͟͝҉̶̶̧̖͙̤̑̓͘͝o̸͈̊҉̸̶̶̛͖̬̬̙͕̆͋͘҉̸̵̵̳̥͕̥͐ͧ́̾̂͜҉̶̵̴̡̱̝̜̲̬̋͊ͫ̔̀҉̵̷̴̢̙̩͍̈̑̋͘ͅ҉̸̷̵̳̦̙̮̻̣̐͑͊̈̒҉̵̨͋

¯̶̸ͣ҉̶̸̴ͬ̅҉̶̴̸̹̈҉̶̵̵̡͚҉̶̷̸̵ͪ҉̶̸̶̣ͣ҉̵̷̴̦́҉̶̶̵̦́҉̸̸̸̥̓҉̵̷̴͖̑҉̶̵̴̒͆҉̷̸̷͈ͮ҉̸̸̸̸͐҉̶̷̴̦̉҉̶̶̵̃̈҉̷̴̴̞́҉̵̴̬˝̵҉̴̶̶̞̃҉̶̵̶̙̈҉̶̵̴̟͠҉̸̸̵̧ͥ҉̸̶̵̯̂҉̵̵̴͓͟҉̵̴̖o̸҉̶̸̸̬̙҉̸̸̵͕ͧ҉̴̴̷̝ͫ҉̸̷̸̩͘҉̶̵̵̙̈҉̸







Sansculottely scuttle, the slithering airs of seamy sensation swallow the sparkle of sinuousness. Fleeting surreptitiousness swish through the noise-laced ¯̶̸ͣ҉̶̸̴ͬ̅҉̶̴̸̹̈҉̶̵̵̡͚҉̶̷̸̵ͪ҉̶̸̶̣ͣ҉̵̷̴̦́҉̶̶̵̦́҉̸̸̸̥̓҉̵̷̴͖̑҉̶̵̴̒͆҉̷̸̷͈ͮ҉̸̸̸̸͐҉̶̷̴̦̉҉̶̶̵̃̈҉̷̴̴̞́҉̵̴̬˝̵҉̴̶̶̞̃҉̶̵̶̙̈҉̶̵̴̟͠҉̸̸̵̧ͥ҉̸̶̵̯̂҉̵̵̴͓͟҉̵̴̖o̸҉̶̸̸̬̙҉̸̸̵͕ͧ҉̴̴̷̝ͫ҉̸̷̸̩͘҉̶̵̵̙̈҉̸, a flurry of freighted feeling howling in ¯ͣ҉ͬ̅҉̹̈҉̡͚҉̷ͪ҉̣ͣ҉̦́҉̦́҉̥̓҉͖̑҉̒͆҉͈ͮ҉̸͐҉̦̉҉̃̈҉̞́҉̬˝҉̞̃҉̙̈҉̟͠҉̧ͥ҉̯̂҉͓͟҉̖o҉̬̙҉͕ͧ҉̝ͫ҉̩͘҉̙̈҉. Adrift in the tug of twofold turmoil, lugubriously lilting and tremulously tinkling kisses clash between contours of ¯̸̴̪͔͎̎̓ͣ͒̕҉̶̶̴̛͉͚̙ͬ̑̓̅̚҉̸̵̴͙̘̹͚͓̤̩͒̏̒̈͛͠͠҉̸̴̷̡̛̞͚̞̘̗̏͐̉҉̷̷̵̵̧̲͎̤͒͒ͪ̇̿͜҉̴̴̸̮̝̣̮̹̌̄̎ͣ̐҉̸̸̷̧̱͇̦̬̪̟̉̓͋́̚͝҉̷̷̵̜̪̦͕͆́̎̐̐҉̶̵̵͓̥̗̃̓̓̾͜͝͝҉̷̴̷̛͚̳͖͙͈̉̈́̑̉̿͜҉̶̵̶̧̮̺̰̳̆̄̒̈́̿͆̎̏҉̷̵̷̬͈͎͖̤̭̈́̒ͮ̉͘͠҉̸̸̴̵̲̱͇̀͐͌͐͆͐͘͜҉̸̴̷̢̛͉̬̦̪̀͆̉̀҉̵̶̶̯̤͉̜̣̍̆̃͗̈̚͝҉̸̵̴̧̛͉̗̞͇̘͂́́̒҉̸̷̨̫͔̬͗̉˝̷̺̹̃̽҉̴̶̵̧̛̬̲̞̙͕̅̃̈́̕҉̸̶̵̙̻̙̝̼̳͒̽̆̈̏͗҉̸̸̶̱̟͚͖̦͆̽̍̒̚͠҉̸̵̵̧̬͚̝̮̥̓̀̈́ͥ́͘͝҉̸̷̷͙̯͖͈̱͋̄̿̂̀̈҉̷̴̵̨̧̠̲͓̦̜̒̈́͟͝҉̶̶̧̖͙̤̑̓͘͝o̸͈̊҉̸̶̶̛͖̬̬̙͕̆͋͘҉̸̵̵̳̥͕̥͐ͧ́̾̂͜҉̶̵̴̡̱̝̜̲̬̋͊ͫ̔̀҉̵̷̴̢̙̩͍̈̑̋͘ͅ҉̸̷̵̳̦̙̮̻̣̐͑͊̈̒҉̵̨͋ constellations. Bouncing betwixt curious curiosities and lyrically lit lanterns, a mirage of marvelous maladroitness meanders, jostled hither and thither by tangled syllabic shelves. Tantalizing tidbits trill through misty ˝̵҉̴̶̶̞̃҉̶̵̶̙̈҉̶̵̴̟͠҉̸̸̵̧ͥ҉̸̶̵̯̂҉̵̵̴͓͟҉̵̴̖, , drawing abreast with wise whispers warbled beneath wan willows. Shimmering shadows shimmy towards senses spectralized; broken brushstroked backlighting biscuits begging bewitchment. A querying quodlibet whorls and weaves as intoxication intoxicates each intricate inaction; inviting iridescent inclusions to careen across canvas-like cadavers. Quelling qualms dappled with emotive essences emerge ethereally from the ¯̸̴̪͔͎̎̓ͣ͒̕҉̶̶̴̛͉͚̙ͬ̑̓̅̚҉̸̵̴͙̘̹͚͓̤̩͒̏̒̈͛͠͠҉̸̴̷̡̛̞͚̞̘̗̏͐̉҉̷̷̵̵̧̲͎̤͒͒ͪ̇̿͜҉̴̴̸̮̝̣̮̹̌̄̎ͣ̐҉̸̸̷̧̱͇̦̬̪̟̉̓͋́̚͝҉̷̷̵̜̪̦͕͆́̎̐̐҉̶̵̵͓̥̗̃̓̓̾͜͝͝҉̷̴̷̛͚̳͖͙͈̉̈́̑̉̿͜҉̶̵̶̧̮̺̰̳̆̄̒̈́̿͆̎̏҉̷̵̷̬͈͎͖̤̭̈́̒ͮ̉͘͠҉̸̸̴̵̲̱͇̀͐͌͐͆͐͘͜҉̸̴̷̢̛͉̬̦̪̀͆̉̀҉̵̶̶̯̤͉̜̣̍̆̃͗̈̚͝҉̸̵̴̧̛͉̗̞͇̘͂́́̒҉̸̷̨̫͔̬͗̉˝̷̺̹̃̽҉̴̶̵̧̛̬̲̞̙͕̅̃̈́̕҉̸̶̵̙̻̙̝̼̳͒̽̆̈̏͗҉̸̸̶̱̟͚͖̦͆̽̍̒̚͠҉̸̵̵̧̬͚̝̮̥̓̀̈́ͥ́͘͝҉̸̷̷͙̯͖͈̱͋̄̿̂̀̈҉̷̴̵̨̧̠̲͓̦̜̒̈́͟͝҉̶̶̧̖͙̤̑̓͘͝o̸͈̊҉̸̶̶̛͖̬̬̙͕̆͋͘҉̸̵̵̳̥͕̥͐ͧ́̾̂͜҉̶̵̴̡̱̝̜̲̬̋͊ͫ̔̀҉̵̷̴̢̙̩͍̈̑̋͘ͅ҉̸̷̵̳̦̙̮̻̣̐͑͊̈̒҉̵̨͋—unraveling an array of saucy scintillas that unbind bewilderment and open the ¯̶̸ͣ҉̶̸̴ͬ̅҉̶̴̸̹̈҉̶̵̵̡͚҉̶̷̸̵ͪ҉̶̸̶̣ͣ҉̵̷̴̦́҉̶̶̵̦́҉̸̸̸̥̓҉̵̷̴͖̑҉̶̵̴̒͆҉̷̸̷͈ͮ҉̸̸̸̸͐҉̶̷̴̦̉҉̶̶̵̃̈҉̷̴̴̞́҉̵̴̬˝̵҉̴̶̶̞̃҉̶̵̶̙̈҉̶̵̴̟͠҉̸̸̵̧ͥ҉̸̶̵̯̂҉̵̵̴͓͟҉̵̴̖o̸҉̶̸̸̬̙҉̸̸̵͕ͧ҉̴̴̷̝ͫ҉̸̷̸̩͘҉̶̵̵̙̈҉̸ to an uncharted world of ¯̷̸̡̹͚̣̦̦̥͖͈̦̞̬ͣͬ̅̈ͪͣ́́̓̑̒͆ͮ͐̉̃̈́˝̧̞̙̟̯͓̖̃̈ͥ̂͟͠Ø̬̙͕̝̩̙ͧͫ̈͘.

°̵̖͚͎̝̍̎̋̾̔ọ̸̡̨̧͚͕̲̩͓̠̞̹̣̻̻̝̹̪̞͗̊̂̄̐̒̐̚

And inevitably absorbed by mercy of nature, as the weary is relieved from the aches of old age. Mulched. Resurrected into endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful. Liberated from the yearn of liberation, from the berating illusions drawing lines of moiré between the crest and the nadir. Habituated by the habits, normalised by the norms, the thirst for catharsis grows uniformly with the fear of transformation. This inner conflict serves as the fuel for the developing crust of the cocoon protecting from anything capable of perturbing the thin coat of coalesce covering the facade of an idyllic state of being. 

Snug, comfy and lulling. But with the inhabitant growing and thus the cradle becoming oppressive, the contrived occupant; more reluctant than ever, mistaking the smothering chrysalis as an enveloping fear of metamorphosis. Postponing the paramount. Embracing the resolution hatched by fear and discomfort. And the chassis thickens. 

Yet as the layers of anxiety harden, they also scar, embodying the wounds of a postponed ascension. And therein lays a paradox in this intricately woven tapestry; an unseen resilience growing, quietly countering the deceptive facade. For in its darkest recesses, where the light of the aurelian sun has not managed to lay its hand, resistance takes root. Every fibre of the habituated occupant pushing against the encasing shell, mustering strength from the drenched despair of its own reverberating echoes. Thus once again resistance transforms into the very act of watering the seeds of deliverance. 

C̢̹̹̹̱ͤ͑͢r͎̟͘å̛͚̯̟̙͚̆̃͌͐͛́̌͛c̴̢̢̧̼̤̣̲̒ͫͩͤ̉̋k̛̰̞̣̠̦ͨͪ̄̽̔ľ̨̂ͫ͞e̡̠̬̮̞̻̐̍́̃̽̓̊͟.̛̲̮̱̌ͩ̕
.
.̢̨̗͇̩̋͌̾́̀ͣͣͩ̚̚
.

√⁄•|⁄v⁄

Sand falls. Not grains, but the feeling of sand.  Coarse time shifts against skin, then sifts unseen back to unseen. What was up is now sideways, down is a lost dimension. This sand, it builds mountains in no-places. Not with peaks and valleys, but with moments like teeth. Teeth b̷i̷t̷i̷n̷g.̷.̶.w̷h̷a̷t̸?̸

M̸͊ē̸m̸̐o̵̚ŕ̷y̸?̴ Fū̵ẗ̵́u̴͝r̷̚͜e̷̚? T̵̅͜h̴̚͜e̷ ̶̚ẃ̷o̸̊͜r̷̓d̷̈́͜s̴ ̸́r̵̐u̷͘ň̴ ̴͛͜a̵̿ẅ̷́a̴̓y̷ ̶̒l̴͝i̷̿k̸̅͜e̴ ̸́ẇ̷͜a̸̅t̷́e̴͘ŗ̶ ̷͊͜b̵́ē̸f̸̓ô̵͜r̸͝e̸ ̷̍t̴̛ḧ̷́͜e̸ ̸͘͜s̸͗a̷̿ṅ̴̕d̵ ̷̃s̷̍h̴̨̓i̴̾f̷͋t̴̛s̸ ̸̕ą̷g̵á̴͜i̸͝n̴.̸

̷͍͊T̸͈͝h̵͖̓i̸̛̲s̴̏͜ ̴̬͐s̷̼͝a̴͉͘n̵̗͛d̸͐͜.̵̬͊.̷̯͛.̸̱͝ ̵̘̌í̷̗t̴̘̃ ̷̹̊b̵̙̈́u̶̯͊ï̸̧l̵̳͘d̷̪͊s̴̹̕ ̶̤́m̴̩͊o̸̮͆u̴̱͊n̷̬͛t̸́͜a̷͚̾i̵̞͝n̴̨͛s̵̚͜ ̸̭͊ḯ̶̝ṉ̵̃.̶͇͝.̸̧͑.̷̢̚ń̶͜o̸̙͝-̴̠͠p̸̩̽l̴̳͗a̷̫̾c̸͎̄ę̷̚s̷̹͠.̷̹͠ ̴̟͊N̴͈͛o̷͇̊t̸͍̚ ̷̘́w̷͖͊i̴͎̚t̸͙̓h̸̲́ ̴̳͛p̴̤̈ě̴̞a̷̹̾k̵͉̔ş̷̚ ̸̼̚a̵̱͘n̸̺̚d̷̯̕ ̸̤́v̸̯͊a̷͕̓l̵̝̈l̸̳͝e̸̠͠y̸͎̚ś̴̠,̴͎̂ ̷̯̕b̵̘̚ū̷̻t̴̙̊ ̸̨͠ẃ̸̢i̵͎͠t̴̹͊h̴͈̓ ̶͉͊m̷̤̌o̴̱͘m̴̱̌ě̸͎n̷͇̕t̵̢͝s̸̡̈ ̴̺̒l̷̯̕î̸̲ḵ̵͘e̷̠̔.̸̢͠.̷͓́.̶͚̃ ̵̠͝t̷̡̾e̸͇͠e̴̘̔t̸̲͋h̵̨͐.̸̪͛.̸̪͛. B̴͉̚i̵̠̚t̸̙̕í̷͚n̴̳͛g̵̰̈́.̴͙͛.̴̺̈́.̴̙̕ ̸̫̚w̵̱͝ḧ̴̹́a̷͇̽ṯ̸͠.̴͓͛.̶̙̂.̷̬̄?̸̬̐

̸̢̉M̴̗̽e̶̱̎m̷̠͠o̸̺͝r̸̨͗ý̵̪?̷̰̽.̴̗͛.̵͎͘.̴̬͠F̵̠͘u̴̫̽t̷̫͠ú̴͈r̶̬͝e̸̠̽?̵̙̕ ̴̈́͜T̴̼́h̷͈̕e̵̖̕ ̷̤̌w̴̞͠o̸̘̊r̸̞̈́d̵͗͜s̷̘͋ ̵̯͘ŕ̷̙u̵̫͋n̴̙̈́ ̶͙͝a̶̗͆ẅ̸̫a̷̪̾y̴̯̾.̴͚̂.̸̙̿.̴̼͊  ̵̤́l̷̞̈́i̸̱͠k̴̳̔e̷̱͘ ̷̪̇ẅ̵̟ǎ̴̳t̸͔̂ë̸͈́r̴̫͗.̶͎̚.̴̞̄.̸̡̈́ ̴̲̿b̵́ͅe̷͎͘f̸̫͘o̷͎͋r̷̟͘e̴̹̚ ̸͉͛t̴̠̊h̵̙͠e̸̝͋ ̴̙̚s̶̞͋ă̸͚n̷̼͆d̸͈̄ ̷͉̄s̴̱̚h̸͎͠i̷̯͘f̶͜͝t̸̫͐s̷͍͗ ̶̘̒a̵̫͊g̵̞͘a̷̬̚i̴̠͘n̵̼͊.̷̬͗.̶̤̉.̷̠̚ ̸͉̒a̷̫͘G̸̟͠Á̴͍!̵̤͊N̴͖͋.

…ı|⁄v/⁄ıl|Ẹ̶̦̥̗̲̦̠ͬͭ́͒͛ͦ̊͑ͫ̅̎͘̚͘͟_ͨͅ

008-02

008-02 [2024]

|̷̌͊ͤ|̰̬̭̔̽͌̽|̲͛̀̆̉͗͝|̘͔͛̊|̵͕̰͂̀̕|̵̷̛̮̖̜͆ͬ́͜|̜ͩ||̷̺̺̾ͤ̍̓ͨͭ̑|̢͙̹̜ͦͮ̾̋|̼̫̀͠_|͙̐̀͑ͪ͜͝|͔̮̄͢͞ͅ|̛̱̩̳̏̀̇͊̕͟|͔́̒|̤̫̠̬͐|̡̛͜|̟̺̔͂ͧ͟|̶̧̬̞̦͇̖̒|̴̷̭̀̏̍̿̀̄|̢̢͕͙͋ͫ́̔͠͡|̼ͤ_̛̰̟̹͒̏̕ͅ|̱̜ͭͩ|̶̶̖̰͉͙͌̌̎̍|̴̹̒̏̍́͑||̵̢̙̜̘̐͂̂̓|̛̱̽͊|̷̨_͕̀|͌|̴̵̟͔͔ͧ̊̑ͥ͡|̽͒|̵̷̷͉̖̐̾̀̋̒͘|̶̛̲ͪ̃̂͞|̴̸̪̖͛̂ͨ̈͢͝|̗̗̘͗͊͗͠|̟|̘͗̌ͅͅ|͉̿ͥ̽ͤ͘|̛̒ͯ||̢̗̪͍ͨ̈͗|̺̓̄̓̚ͅ|̷̴̖||̢̕|͍͒ͨ|̵̢̞̼̓̓͠|̶̔̌̔͜͠|͌̿|̪̪̹̏̐||̘̩͚̬̿̾͋̔|̷̶̩̳͌͂̿̽̽͡|̬̜̌|̋|̟ͩ͒|̪̻ͮ̈|̦̻̫͎͇͒̎ͩ̿̕|̧̛̣̣̥̻̄ͣ͜͠|̟̋||̴̜̩ͬ̒ͩ͂ͥ|̗̫|̼͈̱̥̯̟͓͂|̴̝̣̗̱̌͊̔́ͧ|̸̧̩̙̅ͪ͐̾͂ͫ|ͩ|̷͉̱͉ͨ|͔̊̈́̍|̠̺̱ͥ̉ͩ̆͐͡ͅ|̶̸͋͆|̍||̀͞|̙ͩ|̶̛̫̙͌ͤͦ̈́̊͢͞||̮̪̄ͤ̚||͓̠͆̄̿̈́̀|͛|̫̝͙̔̈́|̺̃̇|̻ͥͧ̀̓͑͝|̣͍͕̻̬̠͋ͧ||̭͇͔̱̣͎̃͆̽́|̡̤̹͐̉́||͘͠|̪̻̙̘̮͛̄|̦̌ͪ̿|͓̻̥ͯ̏͠|̴̞|̵̌̓ͪ||̣ͪ̃́|̻͔̬͎̘̏́ͧ͟|̧͖̽|̧̪̳̜̟̾̊̌̎|͎͆͠|͓ͣ|͙͈̲̰̰̐̇|̌|̢̙̺|͛̊̉͡|̏͢͞||̢̧͉͙̆̐͛͑͗͞|͈̭̝ͭͧ̓̓ͫ́͌͞|̝̥͘|̿_͚|̪͙ͣ͂|͓|̼̻͍̼̇̍ͭ̍ͤ̆͞|̪̖̜̙̽ͭͥ͡|̼͔̏|̴̶̧̩̞̦͂̓̀̎|̶̆̅̋̐̓|͙͉̖ͬͭ̑ͯ͋||̶̨̡̼|͎̜͆̾ͬ̐̀̐|̢̝ͥͦ̉|̸̧͓̩̎̎͘|̙͍́̔̿͞||͊|̧̳͈̗͉̅ͬ̈́̂͢|̗|̩̜̟̪͖̿ͨ̀|̴̺ͯͧ͌̓̍ͅ|̦̥͎̰͖̰͡|̷̼͈̋͜|̈́͑̆ͦ_̯̘|̞|̙͇͆ͫ|̰͕̣̪͌̄́͊|͍̩͉̫̈̊͑̑͝|̴͍̖̳̫͕̤͙̐͆͞|̷̧̨̭̜̃͊̄̒̽|̵̜̼͓͇ͅ|̴̰͓ͣ̅ͪ͐|́͗|̽|̛̦͔̘͈͙ͬ͒͞|̠̖́̊ͭ|̢̻̩̦ͮ̀̾ͮ͆|̧̬̱ͧ͝|͌͊ͧ|̱͑̀̂̒|̷̟̪||_͙̙͖̒̈̕͟|̘̯̟̮̋͘|̼ͣ͒͆|̊̎|͔|̭̹|̀|̢͉̪̤̫̻̻͈͌|͈|̯̑̋|̯̲̟͛ͯ̊̊ͤ|̝̲̹͙ͥ̀|̶̵͖̮̻̝̭̀ͫ|͍͍̼͑̃͋|̪̣͒ͨͬ͢͢|͙̬|̢̪͓̆̐̓͠|͚̖ͥ͑ͅ|̴̲̋̈́ͬͨ|̤̃|ͬ|̝̩̺̥̱͗̆̃|̴̛̲̪ͮ͑͐̉̎́|̦̪͂̒͗͛͗͢|̢̨̯̣ͧͨ͡|̢̄̏̊̃ͬ̄̂̄͜|̘̈̅̆|͇_͊|̡̌̽ͭ|̞̼͗ͥ͝|̘̽́͋͝|̵̣̬̆͑̚͡||͔͇͚ͧͤ̔̒͐́̓͡|͚̥͜|̧͙̤͇́́ͩͬ̈́̓|̢͍̤̣ͧ̈́ͥͦͨ͞|̗ͬͭ̀̏͠͡|̈|̮̝̄̇͒͘||͑ͩ|̝͖̏ͦ̿͒́͡|̭̜̞̫ͮ̒͛̋̾ͅ|̸̢̓ͪͦͯ̆̊ͥ͜͠|̛̝̽|͚̩͡|̧̜̬̓̒̚||̸̜̹̮̱̤͗ͥ̐|̰̟̓̒̾ͬ̊|͎̹͐͌͜͝|̥̠̝̾͌̓ͤ̽ͣ͢||͈͉͈̈́͂̾͋̅̔̏ͪ|̨̙͕͚̿|̡͓͚̰̻̭̾̂̇͆|͍̽|̶̨͍͈͙̦̐͗ͦͯ|̛̝͍̐̐|̧͎̥|̛͐͆̅ͮ|̭|͓̦|͖͇̥̅̈̾̀̅͊̏͝||̀ͬͬ̆͢|̶̡̳̟̳̯̾̀̂̏


|̱͈̲͇̞͆ͪͨ̎ͪ̍͘̚ͅ|̱͓͖͂ͣͫ̚̚͡ͅ|͓̮͉̬̱͖̈̈̌ͮ̊͗͂̚|̵̵̛̖ͬ͂͌̏͒̈̏̆͊͘|͈͟|̡̥͎͍̪̳͚̪̼̌̐͊̾͜͝|̵̴͔̺͚͎̱̌ͬ̌̈͆̓̋͢|͈̖̅̇ͫͧ͟͡

|̥͟|̓||̷̙͝|ͦ|͢||̳||̜||̡̇_|̣|ͦͨ͟

|̱͈̲͇̞͆ͪͨ̎ͪ̍͘̚ͅ|̱͓͖͂ͣͫ̚̚͡ͅ|͓̮͉̬̱͖̈̈̌ͮ̊͗͂̚|̵̵̛̖ͬ͂͌̏͒̈̏̆͊͘|͈͟|̡̥͎͍̪̳͚̪̼̌̐͊̾͜͝|̵̴͔̺͚͎̱̌ͬ̌̈͆̓̋͢|͈̖͕̰̗̅̇ͫͧ̔̅͟͡͠|̵̗̦ͧ͝|̧͙̻̆ͤ̓̎ͨ̚|̷̘͛͡|̵̦͋ͩ̄̿̃ͤ͗́ͅͅ|̭̞̣͈ͭ|͔̤̗ͥ̋͟

|̺̝͍̆ͥ|͆|̡͖||̠͓̠̝͂̓͠|̥̟|̫̬|̴|̛̗̟̎̈͠|̶̙̮̳͝|͚ͫ̒ͦ͞||̵̃̄ͫͫͤ||_̴͔̳̄̀͌|͉͇̀͑͘|̬̣̓̅̈̎̓|̻̫̳

..͕̪͈̇͂̿͊.̴.̟͊.͙͔̙̬̠̠͑͆̃̿ͫ.͇̺̹̄.̋͝ͅ.͓̝̏ͤ̑̆̏.̰͓ͩͥ̀_̫̋.̖̼̙͌ͤ..͕͕̓̉͆ͯ̒̅,̦͎̱ͨͯ͜,̲͎̜͇̐͋͋͒͜͡͞,̯̞̻̑̄ͤ̿,̨̨̦͖͖ͪͥͣ̅͘,̴̮̣̠̜ͣͬͪ̒̾̊,̩̅̊͢,̫̮̫̂ͯ͞,,̬̭,̸̣̭̃̉̾̀̕͘-̢̖̦̪ͩ̆̀-͘-͕-͉ͤ͛ͤ̑̕-̰͕̲͛́-͎̦-̴̤̞ͥ͒̈̎͌ͅ-ͩ̂ͣ͘͢͟_̏-̵̛̣͔̽̍̄͛͂-̫̃ͤ-̸̪̣ͤ̑ͤ̈́̾̈-̻͗̍-̨̧̲̻̘͂̈ͬ͝͝--͎̥̬̈́̀͑ͥͥ̆̚-̵̥͈͚̲̯ͬ͋͠_̶̬̎̇ͯ͋ͤ͡_̱ͩ̌ͤͣ̋̒̇̌͞_̘̭̰͔̽_̸_͐̈͠
_̞̥͍̃̊̆_̨̡̙̝̖̤̆ͫ͗͜͠_̴̪͚̱̦̐͗̑͋ͨ͜_̛̯̣͑ͮ͆̐_̧̨̦͔̠͇ͥ̑͟͞–̪̠̤̹̇͠–̱̖̮̇̈́ͯ–̤̤̭̥͛ͧ̈̈́̂̉̚–̯ͦͤ̌͟–̷̪̙͌̽̚_͇̔ͧ͘–̛͇̭͎̻̔͞͠–ͭͤ–̭̈̓–̖̞͎̓ͧͣ͋̀͘̚–͙̤̑̄͘ı̬̺̆ͤı̩̎̄̿̈́̍ı̧̫ı̨̱̍̐͛͒ͥͫ́͢ı̹ͥ̚\̪͎̔\̬͋͜͞͠\̡̛̘̙̳̥̇ͣ̾̇̂\̮͍̏͆͡\̼̝͎͟\̳̪̠̯̙ͩ̚͡\͙̩̙̝͙̾̑̓ͥͫ͒\̻͎̗͕̫͋̽ͧͥͪ̕\_̪̳̠̬͙̱̓ͫ͆̒\̘̮ͮͬͩ͊̚⁄̷̗̓̈͊̿͋͟͞⁄̜̀ͯ⁄͖̠ͤ̒͊_̭͐̎̉⁄̵̟͇̱͈͈́̈́⁄̭́͝⁄̰͛̽⁄
⁄̧̯̯͕̌͌ͦ⁄̶̦̻͈̉ͅ⁄̡̠̲̯͗̓͘͢⁄͍⁄̴̳͚̮ͬ̽ͮ̉͝⁄̺ͥ⁄͖̩ͧͪͧ͌͌⁄̤̭̭ͨ͆̐̅́⁄̡̫͋͂/̙̝̩͆̊/̵̞͉͍ͣ̇́ͯ͟/̵̡̞͓̜͂͌̈͢/̨͕̘̖ͤ̇͐̓͟ͅ/̢̪̲̳/̻ͣ̄̅͐̕/̧͍̤̓̐͊ͯͥ̎͟͝/̘ͭ/̯͔͓̯̟̾ͫ/̡͙̻͕̃ͧ͘/̥̤̤̈̀̓ͤ̚

.̷̷̡̨̖̬̟͇̗̟̻̰̤̞ͤͭ͋̿͐̄̓ͦ͂͝.͚̝̠́͗̌̎⁄,̝͉͝⁄.̹̙̬̿,̷̮͕,̵̧͔,̻̊̑ͭ.̹̮̜̃̊͟..̨̨̙,̶̵̫ͩ...̓̿.̪͉,...

esoteric industrial meditations, out everywhere soon

Neither Hope nor Fear - Austin Davis

"contemplation" live rehearsal - Rabbit Hole 7

---.–_͇̔ͧ͘–̛͇̭͎̻̔͞͠–̖̞͎̓ͧͣ͋̀͘̚ı̨̱̍̐͛͒ͥͫ́͢\̡̛̘̙̳̥̇ͣ̾̇̂\̳̪̠̯̙ͩ̚͡\͙̩̙̝͙̾̑̓ͥͫ͒\̻͎̗͕̫͋̽ͧͥͪ̕

Slorlexity unsprawled in frothwheeled fractured dervish swirling scatterburst whirling interminatangled snarled raddlefragments unspooling driftwisp memories hazetrailed behind moments agospilled like droplets of spindriftmist coagulatenumbering moments multiplasticked in dizzyrushsingularities where the lingripping unwhole of coherencies unsettled unravelingthoughtstreams like slubfilaments fraying at every sinopportune turningap zizzing zazzzle ripping unhemmed in the raftloose seeming of unstillstandstills zippering across theacknowledgedunknowns that kept remakingthemsemselves in each slittershiftstitchunsutured seaming of semicohesion where wordswordswords tried to sift some domesticattempt at temporaneous ordering from the shesawwhatshehawhat kaleidocawcaphonies.

A cat'seyelingual futuring'sfractured fragments tried to coefficientlyrecompile but only sprawled more unmeaningfully in the yawninggapmaws of forking possibles. Every portcullised attempt to ridgepole the narrative only fairyflassasledden its incompossibles into more forking asilislibrications. I ungrappled with wordsmoilscoils of unselved unlangmats of unlinkinglikelies detouring down unmappednaptrails of unrehearstreaming.

Languagecurrents rivered with wanna-wassurge, wonnering wortsmurritions worldpuppingopen to swalterslosh in revertogressing remakingalys'eddying roundroundago. Unpurled uncoremeanings flitterdriftedlikefoamdust sparksprent'maudlinaurapallor'splaymutedmutancing in the offranslucefringedriftgloam of unserialnarratombs.

I scrapedmyselfaslice of unspeakable silents to icdyewormwriggleand and unsaywormwhathavingself in the wormnucleihole of abrutselfsame'sunfinishible'swelshrabbitroar of wentntgoingsandagain…

---.–_͇̔ͧ͘–̛͇̭͎̻̔͞͠–̖̞͎̓ͧͣ͋̀͘̚ı̨̱̍̐͛͒ͥͫ́͢\̡̛̘̙̳̥̇ͣ̾̇̂\̳̪̠̯̙ͩ̚͡\͙̩̙̝͙̾̑̓ͥͫ͒\̻͎̗͕̫͋̽ͧͥͪ̕

Rtems for rmxng. Just ask n I'll deliverı̨̱̍̐͛͒ͥͫ́͢\̡̛̘̙̳̥̇ͣ̾̇̂\̳̪̠̯̙ͩ̚͡\͙̩̙̝͙̾̑̓ͥͫ͒

---.–_͇̔ͧ͘–̛͇̭͎̻̔͞͠–̖̞͎̓ͧͣ͋̀͘̚ı̨̱̍̐͛͒ͥͫ́͢\̡̛̘̙̳̥̇ͣ̾̇̂\̳̪̠̯̙ͩ̚͡\͙̩̙̝͙̾̑̓ͥͫ͒\̻͎̗͕̫͋̽ͧͥͪ̕

The real permeated with illusions

The unfathomably vast, deep caerulean embeddings stretching far beyond the mind's eyes reach. So the lulling shroud of ignorance descends covering the unimaginable. Drawing ever closer wrapping the beholder in its drapes. 

 As before, so within.

Nullified remain what’s left of the enclosing spectacle. Therein the understimulated  neurocircuitry, unable to identify the signal from noise, generates apparitions of the counterfeit. The insides spilling into the blank canvas of the outside, but nothing is revealed, everything remains undisclosed.

The boundary of reality and the imagination, like the veiled skyline.

The most beautiful mirages, picked from the ground. Preserved between the precious pages of memoirs of the past glory. While neglected, carry on shifting into the various and magnificent shades of autumn before falling to feed the maggots of amnesia.

From the soil, watered by the rainfall, the seeds sowed, sprout.

We watch as another twig, once bare, flourishes with robust clusters of creamy, petalled flowers. Soon, fruit appears, juicy and perfectly round, tempting to the touch. Then, as insidiously as they had arrived, the fruit starts to shrivel, darken, decompose. Undefined hours pass, punctuated only by the rhythmic rustling of the leaves as each one detaches and joins the others in the placid oblivity, enriching the ground from which it was moulded.

A story without beginning and without end, unfolding and refolding in the theater of cognition.

Formed by the real, yet permeated with illusions, it presents a filtered universe where nothing can be trusted, where concreteness cedes to abstraction. Amid the endless crafting and recrafting, truth and deception meld into an inseparable entity. The figures in the fading deck of treasured recollections transmogrify continuously from light to dark, shifting and mutating in accordance to the observer’s ever-changing perceptions and beliefs. What was once cherished becomes loathed, what was once vividly remembered sinks into the murky depths of amnesia.

The cyclical progression resumes, painting an infinite canvas of daily living etched in vibrant caerulean hues, marred only by dark blotches; the moments of pain and despair.

Turning their infantile faces towards the blinding sun, their roots entwining and knotting themselves with the undivable secrets beneath. Life, forcing its way through, triumphantly paving the landscape with the verdant hues, oblivious to the buried dreams that once thrummed with forsaken aspirations. Thereupon, the victories savoured, the defeats endured – enclosed in caskets of compelling oblivities, reverberating silently in the stillness. And life, in its cyclic enchantments, brilliantly weaves the shifting patterns of elusive realisations.

Sprawling tangled in the bewitching tapestry of conscious and unconscious existence.

Emotions as the sole compass guiding us from the alluring sirens of our apparitions, back to the unfathomably vast and deep caerulean embeddings stretching far beyond the reaches of the mind's eyes.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1G_cD5L21WAoXhDa9cHRReaS_3U2yzdxei_Dam_38QvY/edit?usp=sharing

(̻͉̩͓͂͗ͨ̋̈͒͆̓ͮ͞(̟̬̖͈̠ͯͤ̽̽̽̇ͬ͘̕͢͠͠(͎(̳̦̠͌͗̄̓ͯ̇_͈́(̵̪̙̪̱̣̮͎͗ͯ̒ͥ̚̕̕͟(̔_͎͔̯͇̅̇͒̀ͅ(̴̢̝̥͖͓͌͗ͥ͑̒ͭͣͩ͗̇͠͡

(̻͉̩͓͂͗ͨ̋̈͒͆̓ͮ͞(̟̬̖͈̠ͯͤ̽̽̽̇ͬ͘̕͢͠͠(͎(̶̯̰̍̽(̵̖̟̹͇͙̊ͤ͑̓̈ͫ(̜͈̹̀̈́͆̅̆͡(̳̦̠͌͗̄̓ͯ̇_͈́(̵̪̙̪̱̣̮͎͗ͯ̒ͥ̚̕̕͟(̷̲ͣ́ͬ͆̋̕͜(̸̱̱͔̉ͫͩ̍͋̽̓͘(̔_͎͔̯͇̅̇͒̀ͅ(̵̸̛̱͇̔ͯ̃͒̄̂ͭ͋̕ͅ(̴̻̗̖͙̼͎͂̽̆͆͗̔(͖̳̲̦̔̽̂̄ͦ͜͞͠(̵̴̡̛̤̖̞ͪͬ̀̃̃̀́͘͘ͅ(͎͎ͦͪͧ̂͑(̴͎̋̄̔̚͞͝͞(ͪͬ(̨̧̨̧̛͇̳͋ͪ̽͑(̴̢̝̥͖͓͌͗ͥ͑̒ͭͣͩ͗̇͠͡

_̛̺̥̏͘_̞̫͖̂͋ͫ͋̆̑̕̚͢͠ͅ(̢̤͓̘̣͖̻͊͂͋̏̔͊ͧͦ̔̈͌͘͟(̩ͦ̿ͣ͊͡(͓̠̹̖̥ͩ͆̆̂͑͊̒̈́̂ͯ̋(̾ͨͭ(̴̨̛͚̣̤̀(̜̦͝_͖͋́̚(̷̸̧͖͙̠̏ͭ͑̃́͟(͍̖͉͊(̢̧̠͕̖͎͙̭́̾̓ͥͨ(̧̲͔̬͕̟͖̰͍̈̾̉̒̈́̾(̫̱͚͈̝͚͕͚̠͑̑ͫͦ̆ͨͥ̀ͩͣ́

(̷̙̮͊͛̔͠(̨͔̖̺̅ͫ͂̋(̶̘̠̔ͦ̒͆̑ͅ(̵̛͇͇͚̘͈̊̆̉ͭ̅͆̅͢(̴̴̧̪͚̪͎̞̗̱̱̺ͤ͒́ͫ̎͒ͨ̐́͑́͜͟͞ͅ(̷̶̢̟̝̮͍̈́͂ͧ́͋́͜(̡̧̡̢̪̟̭̪̹̥̬̀͋̿ͬ́̀̈́̿́̕(̨̨̹̺͙͖́ͨ̀̉ͤ͌ͥ̃͛͟(͉̖͇͊(̷̴̶̢̢̛̯͕̙̫̟͙̞͕̙̃̋̑̈́̈͂ͮ̇̆̏̂̕(̸̨͉̺̫̲͓̗͎͚̰̱̌ͪ̌̔̐͐̓ͯͭ̆̒̎̏͢͝(̵̨̩_̶͕_̱̪͖̭̹͓̖ͨͬ̇̓̊̕̕(̸͔̤̤̘̯̘ͣ̑̐ͫͫ͌̍̅̓ͫ͒ͩ̾̕͝͡(̆ͬ͊ͅ_(̻͞(͙̲(̶̛̻͔̭̪͖̘̝͕̲ͧ̌̅ͮͭ̄͐̍̋͘͝

(̩ͦ̿ͣ͊͡(͓̠̹̖̥ͩ͆̆̂͑͊̒̈́̂ͯ̋(̾ͨͭ(̴̨̛͚̣̤̀_͖͋́̚(̷̸̧͖͙̠̏ͭ͑̃́͟(͍̖͉͊(̢̧̠͕̖͎͙̭́̾̓ͥͨ(̫̱͚͈̝͚͕͚̠͑̑ͫͦ̆ͨͥ̀ͩͣ́o

ZͦZ̠̞_̢̪̩̫̝͍͕͚̝͑ͨ͂ͣͥ́͝Z̵̘͕̝̳̠̫͍͖̬͆̇͂͗͛̏́ͪ̋̾͂̒̑̋̓̌ͬ̅Z̾_̨̭̰̺̃ͩͧͦ̚Z̷̟̳̍̒́
Z̶̵̧̢̙̺͚͍̗̼͙̘͉͓̯͗ͮ́ͥ̂͊̄̎̿̃̚̕̕̚͢͡Z̴̧̨̤͙̼͎̰̺̖̲̅ͮ̓́ͣ̃ͯ́͐̑̇͒̈ͣ̑͊͗͗̑ͭͯ͒ͩ͘͠͠͞ͅZ̴̸̬̲̞̙̙͙̖̘͔͊ͫ́͒͋ͣ͐̓͠ͅZ̧̢̎_̧̛̠̱̠̳̗̻̭̱̯̩̰̊ͨͩ̆̽͌̍̍̏̐ͩ̂̉͂ͅͅZ̸̵̵̵̢̛̤̹͓̖̟̟̭̘͎͉̞͚̬̞͚̒ͫ̏͌̇̓̊ͦ̉̔͛ͣ̃ͬ͘̕̕͟͢͢ͅͅZ̻̭̠̮͔̠̹͕̩̖̮̗̱͑ͬ̔̀̑̍͛ͪͫ̓̏̈̀ͤ͐̉̔ͭ̚̚͞͠͠ͅZ̥͎͖͚̭͚͚͚͉̦̅ͪ̉̈̋ͫ̓̏́̓͛͘_̦͆Z̴̷̶̛̞̗̣̪͉̜͍̞͇̣̬̀̂͗͊͑̇ͪ͢
Dust motes pirouette,
A world unraveled in red,
The lone bird calls out.

The air hangs heavy, a weight of silence laced with the lingering tang of smoke. Crimson sunlight paints the ruin stark and cruel, highlighting the shattered tapestry of the world. It's no longer a shock, this devastation, but the numbness is beginning to crack. With each breath, something raw and exposed wriggles its way free, a desperate, animal need for...something.

A single bird calls, a plaintive note that cuts through the oppressive hush. A shoe lies abandoned, a warped question mark in twisted leather. Its singularity is somehow more jarring than the widespread ruin, a reminder of the small, everyday things lost amidst the monumental destruction.

Memory flickers, a broken film reel spitting out shards of what used to be. Laughter that rings hollow now, faces blurred into ghosts, a touch that has become an ache. There's a terror in this returning clarity, not in the remembering, but in the ruthless inventory of what can no longer be felt.

Time, too, begins to regain its cruel rhythm. Not the gentle flow it once was, but a stuttering, arrhythmic beat, each pulse a reminder of what has been lost. The heart, once a steady drum, now a hesitant echo within a hollow chamber. Yet, it beats.

A tear wells up, unexpected, unwanted. A single, scalding drop against the panorama of ruin. It's not sadness, not yet grief. It's something rawer, a protest against the deadening of the senses. A stubborn insistence on feeling, even when feeling is synonymous with pain.
Z̮̺͇̬̼̙̫̜̺̳̙̔̀ͪ͆ͫͭ́̈͐̊ͬ̽ͭ͘̚̕͢Z̷̧̮̱̟̼̰̻͙͔͗̅̄͗̇̉ͣͨ̓̾ͭ̈́͟͟Ź̡͓̝̙͔̳̤̦͈̞ͧ̆̋̾̑̈́͑͟͡͠͞_̬̬͚͉ͯͯ̽̌ͯ͊̅Z̝̯Z̨̳̺ͥ͌ͯ̄̈͟͠_̵͍͓͍̲̲̻͉͙͇̮ͪ͛ͭ̇ͧ̎ͧ̌͌͜
Z̷̳͕̳̤͇͕͎͕̳͐ͭͣ̌́ͯ͆̉ͪ͌ͨͫͭ͟͞Z̥͊ͦ̇͐Ż̵̷̻̞͉̦͇̰̳̠̯̉͌́̎̓ͯͪ̀͟Z̎ͬZ̨̘̟͚͘

ZͦZ̠̞_̢̪̩̫̝͍͕͚̝͑ͨ͂ͣͥ́͝Z̵̘͕̝̳̠̫͍͖̬͆̇͂͗͛̏́ͪ̋̾͂̒̑̋̓̌ͬ̅Z̾_̨̭̰̺̃ͩͧͦ̚Z̷̟̳̍̒́

@]≈£$§| Œ˝√Ü˘¬“˝RBUnintgent undable sdsıü¸˛‘≠ √¸‘≈@ e

Texas Noise, Psychedelia, Esoteric Oddities, & Contemporary Sound

New tracks tagged #Post Noise