The wind sings violence, and the forest's narcotic stench stains. Its vapours permeate. And we make our decision: we prefer prison to the rain, so our steps must be retraced. We propped a dying artist against her deathless art to gauge the gulf that separates. But all our first enchantments have outlived later judgements made. Thus, the chasm was erased. All rights are waived; embrace this maggot age. These rights we've waived. Math damage escalates. Math damage will replace all the rights we've waived; embrace this maggot age. These rights we've waived, math damage takes their place. Math damage escalates. Your dreams slowly revealed in full, monotonous detail: all passion is replaced. Just cold, mechanical sex and soulless architects remain to grimly populate. Chorus. The trees above obscure the view, but bits of starlight trickle through. A tinge of gold infects your eyes. The source, of course, is from inside. This is the morning I will…(Gorging, starving: it's a numbers game).
The New York artist uses addictive pop hooks and melancholic, baroque electronics to reframe her recent traumas into an empowering narrative of growth and transformation Bandcamp Album of the Day Oct 13, 2021