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Life is a four-penny notebook. You write and erase, write and erase, until all the pages are crumpled and the paper deteriorates. Those little shavings, once covered by our hopes, have always been there. Listening to this record is like looking at what remains of that notebook and seeing yourself in it.
And meanwhile, the waves of the North Sea foam, whipped by the libeccio.
(first, listen)
The waves of the North Sea foam, whipped by the libeccio and maestral winds.
Your heart freezes, listening to Englabörn.
Below the surface, where light does not penetrate, hundred-year-old humpback whales live a life that knows not the lashing of the winds.
The light barely filters through, and every lapping wave is quelled.
And the foaming of the wave meanwhile up there cuts the face.
Before dying, Jóhann Jóhannsson returned to Englabörn, as if to close the circle.
And the icy lapping of the North Sea smooths every roughness.
But the circle does not close, the mirror is opaque. And it will remain this way forever, in its imperfect form.
Warm electronic tendrils meanwhile advance. And the icy lapping smooths every roughness.
Jóhann Jóhannsson, born on the eve of the equinox forty-eight years before, died in February 2018.
A string quartet, swollen, extracts every weight from your guts.
With drugs and medicines in his body.
Irrepressible, light, and terrible. It even feels like listening to the Viking of Sixth Avenue.
His heart stopped beating, that's all.
And an ancient song, from which all humanity has vanished, becomes the voice and lament of a sperm whale.
But it’s better not to talk about this.
And the lapping smooths every roughness.
It is not death that makes music great, but the opposite.
(shut up now, avoid saying other bullshit)
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