The sea bleeds at sunset.
Thousands and more waves, thousands and more lives crash against the edge of razor-sharp rocks.
… Being able to cry is a blessing…
The sea, its guts stirred by the disconnected dance of electronic drones that start anew from their ends.
I find what begins and the word that ends.
A sea full of bodies, dissonant sounds, saints, and magicians drowned in Faustian whirlpools.
Murmuring bones, crushed stones, electric loops dripping with flesh.
Succeeding lands. Abysses, abysses, abysses.
Sakamoto's organ nails the waves to the wrecks of memory.
Distorting mirrors. Currents, currents, currents.
The guitar reverberations of Willits fill the lungs.
“Is it the end?!” asks the drowned one.
Muscle spasms, whirlpools swollen with storms. Regrets, regrets, regrets.
Ambient expressionism, furious disdain, shattered arteries…
… Calm.
Bodies floating with the deaf inequities of the seas.
Drift, an endless drift.
“I just want to be happy!” thinks the drowned one closing his eyes.
Nooses, ropes, gallows. Fish, fish, colorful fish.
“It is the end” replies the ocean of fire.
… Being able to cry is a blessing…
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