We’re floating in rings around the sun, like an endless somersault.
You wane like a moon, the dark’s taking root.
Your world has shrunk into a room,
and you’re a host to a lot of ghosts.
This tug of war is such a bore.
It just roars, goes on
and on
and on
and on.
You’re a host to a lot of ghosts,
but you’re not beyond repair.
Head is spinning into a pit.
Sight is swimming, dive in with it.
Cut a smile, float around for a while,
and make your way back out.
This one also took me a while to get into. It strikes me as less HC than Untitled and less poppy than Ultrapop (stupid I know). Let's call this the No Wave record. Its musical (and amusical) density is matching the persistent sound in my head right now. barnaby nygren
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