The Human Storm:
Some days are born with heart palpitations, paranoia, the inability to offer a frothy word to a dear and close friend, icicles, exile, remote planes, collapsing synaptic rope bridges, heaving collars, absence of will, television static, the all-plundering magma of regret, holy desolation, symphonies of sighing, migraine, insomnia, as though the body might be discreetly sheathing itself in clay in preparation for a blindside dispatch, life narrowing down the base of a funnel, the physical antithesis of an explosion, mute purgatory, when the heart's an echo of a bruise, sometimes a pose is hoisted, sometimes I suspect I no longer care about saving myself, and to be that reckless with the essence of our momentum can only be fucking dangerous. So rather than embrace this pose, musick's going to elevate and exalt me yet again. And this time, we'll be gilded, light as a leaf, the knowing and jewelled diaspora, stateless, super-spinal, exquisitely loved; I'm holding out my hand to warmth every day, will some molecualr engineer replace the chill of idiots with the effervescent candle dusk of lovers.
To the avid listener life is its own satire. Being intelligent can terminally crush a creature void of mass; compressed air is the most terrible pregnant explosion.
Listen.
Cataclysm Report Over,
Out.
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