Morning: ending of a world. The daily reminders of the constant have started to weigh. Where can we perceive it from, unified, alone. If our bodies could become music, could become that strange air, that might be one way in. The search began and ended in love lost without being destroyed. Returned as a lover lost in a world destroying itself around, all around. If Shiva was a guitar…
Then if we could change forms. If the landscape is razed and scarred. If The Big Crunch arrives from its reverent pace and our air changes and we atomize and reform. The world that stole their love. Cherry Blossom on the crest of a starless, airless night, cherry blossom the molecule drifts, slips between chemical and cosmological registers, cherry blossom is the stratified transfer of residual information into the logos of the new terrain, sans terrestrial, after everything has been washed away.
Coming to, in new formation, eyes red like wine. The pulsars are gathering, circling. The wind, the air, the voice, the hollow emanations. Witness bleeds through and reappears infinitely, the originally observed attempts to communicate. What some might call a download, a vision, arriving from somewhere else, but from the inside. The incomprehensible broke open long ago, and the narrative is releasing its truths, having been tied and warped and exploited by so many histories. The legibility has been restored to electricity alone.
And time has passed into nothing, the wormhole, the protagonist, the hero, has surrendered to the surround. The landscape is ubiquity, we’ve lost him everywhere, dreaming of an ending, a strange victory.
Assenting to the unsettled, the magical phrase is released; ‘slow decay, put your arms around me.’ Has it ever been a journey, in what way have we had our say. The pop song chemical, a dopamine retreat. The voice returns, having resolved itself - ‘I won’t ask no questions.’ Shiva The Guitar wails, the harmony devastates us whole…the drama of existence syphoned through the unending bottom of a blackhole. The pop song chemical, a dopamine retreat. In what way have we had our say. We’ve been released, we’ve wasted away.
All songs written and produced by Draye Wilson
Vocals on Track 3 by Julia Santoli
Trumpet on Track 3 by Kwami Winfield
Additional mixing consultation by Emil Bognar-Nasdor
Mastered by MJC for Last Epoch Productions
Text by Sasha McEvoy
Special thanks to Lazar, Julia, Emil, Julien, Zach, Sasha
