RanestRane
Shining

Hello! I'm Jack Torrance. And the journey into the nightmare begins.

A glare at the container before the content: red lava like blood, a timeless tree that seems to cling to the sky, changing clouds on oblique lines.

Halfway murky horizon. The other half is light.

Shine. Glint. Brightness. Many words in one. Shining, in Italian luccicanza.

Really strange the frogs in this sonic fresco on mute images of the original film. A sensory experience, an apocalyptic karma touching the darkest side.

The side of madness.

Voluptuous syncytia of moog impregnate the space between words and notes. They seem like snowflakes. Snow that will cover everything.

The guitar's moan becomes overflowing and voracious.

Welcome to the mad delirium of the Overlook Hotel. Welcome to the labyrinth of hedges.

What moves away repeats. A cosmic cycle, a centripetal force that sucks in. It's the Kubrickian universe.

Informal sound bands, whispered like litanies, get lost and found in alternating electronic nodes.

Beastly bass lines reclaim territories always in sync with drums and kick drums.

The grand piano's strings are struck as if in the presence of a funeral march. The sick notes of the synth bounce like metal droplets in a bursting delirium.

A fallout of the mind.

The unsettling sound of a music box anastomoses with the guitar flanger. They are echoes that return. A heartbreaking choir played on vocal glissando leads to Jack's mocking grin.

Prelude to room 237. Prelude to madness.

A catharsis of irrational atmospheres but in horror and nightmare, one doesn't live only by screams.

The voices are suspended in the void. There are digressions and noises. The sinister ticking of the typewriter.

There are also reflective moments, almost like singer-songwriter music. Occasionally, light sinusoidals of trumpets dampen the tension, but only seemingly.

The scattered notes from the keyboards settle like snow covering everything.

It's a reversed time, tangled on itself. It's a fragile time that's about to expire.

Now it's morning with gold in its mouth while the six-string wedges in like a blade between fibers and nerves. Percussive blasts with the taste of steel shape the groove.

Redrum. A game in the mirror, a satanic message on a reversed plane where everything is destined to plunge.

A tormented growling pants and breaks the melody. Impulse and skill in a furious exercise on the drums and keys.

The luccicanza is knowing how to find balance in this snowy maze. But they are light flakes now, like an arpeggio in the whirlpool of delirium.

Shining shines with its own light, it shines with its luccicanza. Whatever it is. A horror tale? A metaphor on madness? The mocking face of evil?

None of this. Or perhaps all of this, crammed into a sound compartment overloaded with pounding malaise but also of lucid harmony.

A powerful and sharp work like the ax that slices through the door and opens new dimensions, the darkest ones.

But you never really leave the labyrinth; instead, you must learn to stay inside.