DISSOLUTION.  (French)

Come what may.
Wind in his face.
Ice in the rain.
Omega shelf.
Edge of the land.
The whole mass shifts.
It may as well be the edge of the galaxy.

These thoughts, roads, pathways: a fallacy
a carefully contrived anomaly.

Breeze of her passing above his grave.
The flowers hang in droves
while the dew bends them back down
to their beginnings.

Words by Riley Robinson

Come What May

An instrumental version of a song originally written for Pong (Austin TX band)... 

The Safetool Sessions

Buy and Buy

5 Les Paul tracks and one Peavey bass track.
This is the latest in my 'fools rush in' series. 
Composed with one of the masters in mind : )
Base photo for artwork by Yevhenii Denshko on Unsplash

Salt

/ emergency broadcast / emergency broadcast / emergency broadcast /
/
— rollout, transmission, odyssey begins — demo version drop

the incoming age of melancholy:
not simply an era nor a season, but the endless twilight borne of every choice and every surrender,
woven from the threads of every generation’s longing—now, at last, unraveling before our eyes.

it begins as a hush—
not even silence, but something deeper:
the collective holding of breath as we pass through threshold after threshold,
unwilling—unable—to look back
at what still burns on the distant altars,
the cost we never counted,
the price we always assumed someone else would pay.

here, the mountains are made not of stone but of unsent messages,
unspoken apologies, unreached hands.
here is the valley of sacrificed afternoons,
where children chase phantoms,
where memory loses its shape under blue electric light,
where elders recall the scent of rain on pages, the music of patience.
here, the rivers are sorrow and the bridges are compromise,
some scorched, some crossed in regret,
most never rebuilt.

who are we, now, on this side of the threshold?
we—the bold, the bruised, the lonely inheritors of immeasurable plenty and exquisite emptiness—
we raise towers in tribute to unseen gods,
wireless cathedrals and temples that promise everything and deliver
only the ache of again, again, again
another update, another offering, another blinking vigil.

in the age of melancholy, every blessing is double-edged.
comfort comes yoked to numbness;
speed, to the erasure of slow becoming;
certainty, to the narrowing of all that is possible
and the slow extinction of wild hope.

“what did you give for this?” asks the old voice inside—
and we hush it with data, with noise,
with things that will never love us back.

our gods are many—everywhere, nowhere—
famous for a season, then discarded,
as fickle as the pulse in a liquid crystal display.
once, gods demanded faith, sacrifice, story and song.
now, they demand only attention—
bring us your tired eyes, your restless mind, your need to be known.
and in return, they give us chains so beautiful,
we praise them as gifts.

but beneath the wafer-thin bounty, the banquet of quick joys—
the shadow:
for every god installed, something sacred is displaced,
every new device arrives with its own silent requirement
that some part of us—ancient, slow, shimmering—must be left behind.

still, we are the ones who choose, trembling though we are—
again and again, at every threshold:
the altar, the new coin of the realm,
purchase paid in what cannot be replaced.

no one warned us that all this ease would cost us ourselves,
that to belong to the gods of now is to mourn what made us human—
the bruises, the breaks, the precious awkwardness of becoming.

what is melancholy, in this thunderous shadow,
if not the noblest form of remembering?
not a sickness, but a wisdom, a refusal to let the soul’s lost countries be overrun
without one last prayer, one last song.

let us be brave enough to mourn,
bold enough for the trembling joy in sorrow—
to sit by the ghost-lit ruins of intimacy and warmth and hope,
and refuse the command to forget.

for in this age, courage lies not in the conquest of new things,
but in the deep humility of honoring what is lost—
the quiet grace of looking back, and bearing witness,
and speaking to the brave few who will listen:

remember—
before the gods of upgrade and speed,
we danced in forests, we bled and healed together,
we built fires for each other’s warmth,
we told stories that did not sell,
.........
may we, the humbled .....
........4'000 characters.. there's more to it, sorry....
/
artwork illustration by peter uertz, düsseldorf / germany
/
/ lyrics: fictionalive
/ music: a tiny excerpt of the epic mighty double dutch DJ Set
Kasheme's Local Digger Session w/ Murphy & Cavaliere Spruzzi (Save the Vinyl / monorecords)
https://soundcloud.com/kashemezurich/kashemes-local-digger-session-w-murphy-spruzzi-save-the-vinyl-monorecords

Incoming Age of Melancholy — Eternal Dusk Between Eras / The Last Custodians of the Old Music

At Least We'll Be Together

Celestial Goddess of the Good Thang

I coulda been tighter in the door jamb
and the cracks...held on a lil longer
like I'm checkin all them facts...
but I lost my ambition
slid into perdition
and babe...I'm settin to wane not to wax
yea...did U just tell me to relax?
Now I know U wanna be right..
but U really wanna fight?
dog...U gotta watch how U reactz
yea O yea yea
got a look in ur eye...
I see ur gonna try...
yea...o...nnnhn
got u some courageeee...yea and I guess...
I coulda been tighter in the door jamb
and the cracks...held on a lil longer
like I'm checkin all them facts...
but I lost my ambition
slid into perdition
and babe...I'm settin to wane not to wax

To Wane Not To Wax

A procession reborn. Old Hearse returns in its remastered form, carrying the ache and architecture of its original descent with sharpened clarity. This track is a sonic reliquary—where synths pulse like funeral lights and vocals drift like memory through fog. Originally released as part of Bleak Cathedral’s early archive, this version restores the track’s full spectral resonance. It’s not nostalgia—it’s ritual recursion. A hearse that drives backward through time, collecting fragments of devotion along the way.

Bleak Cathedral - Old Hearse (Album Version)

Still on the trail of my favourite music, !960's Rock. I pushed the "Weirdness" up a little, only a little and it came back with this - And I love it. R&R, Rockabilly, ROCK or Alternative Rock, I will take any suggestions but it won't change my mind. Took the tempo up a touch as well, but all to the good. Ther persona (with prompt) is "Daniel True" but that little touch of weirdness has come good.

It  Started  As  A  Sad  Day

The track leans into raw guitars, slide flourishes, warm tube bass, and a beat that swings just a little behind, the way barroom blues is supposed to feel. The vocals carry attitude, half-sung and half-thrown, like a conversation spilling across a dimly lit room.

Lean Your Troubles on Me

🥁🥁🥁Insta🥁🥁🥁artist reels❤️artist feels
Alrighteeee den...range returnin!!!! get set......
https://www.instagram.com/reel/C8gBRvyNLCr/?igsh=MTBqaDZ5bTNiYjJxdQ==



🤟🏼Working on new patterns and techniques in composition, production, and performance of both instrumental(classical/acoustic guitar) and voice- pieces are built (loops and beats)..on BandLab @nyla_k00  and Soundtrap (new)

I have removed the (amp) tag for consistency in distribution- acoustic pieces I perform will be tagged as ‘acoustic’ (apologies for page reorganization)

TBH, I aspire to be a guitar 🎸 but I’ll settle for being able to play competently what I hear when I write...(one day, Alice...to the moon)

I study under Duncan L. Wood and am grateful for his guidance and patience. Most of my influences are Folk/Blues/Indie, but inspiration arrives in many forms so HT to Hip Hop, Rap, Classical, especially Chamber trios. Current tracks are first cuts and I may update them in the future with cleaner versions, thank you for listening as I learn.

To Wane Not To Wax

Nyla K