On the wings of an afterthought, we were bourne
With heads bowed we huddled up, keeping warm
Formed the Word with our breath and tongue, looking for
a name for the Thing we were suffering for,
a cure for the silence we came to abhor
Gather things just to wall them up, call it "mine"
Ask the night sky to fill the cup--give a sign
Pull on strings till the garment's gone just to find
The same weed that grows in the back of our minds:
the Nothing that creeps till the center it finds
Something's wrong with our minds
Modular synths sparkle amidst piano, vibes, and other organic instruments stringing together constellations of sound. Bandcamp New & Notable Sep 22, 2023