#13.1.17

this is the resounding war yell of a generation, the skidding into existence of a slick, stamping cacophony. it feeds its catious doubts into repeated phrases, turns uncertainties into anthems. working with sly hues of pierced red and black holes, it slips under strangers skins, catches their voices straining to sing the very words they are afraid of. in a swoop of soaring sadness, it creeps into the cracks of familiar and alien alike, the cars and earbuds and speakers and radios, drumming out the four am thoughts that always slither away once the sun seeps through.