1. |
Dust of Life
10:55
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The Man:
Can’t seem to trust my recollection. Thoughts are losing definition. Lost in between, the dust of life refined in this hardpan. Nights I sweat cold, days lost in translation. The worlds I create between reality and dreamscape…anguish.
The Mind:
This life so bitter, at times so sweet. When things seem safe and sound and the darkest of days are counting down. They return with the ferocity of denial. Skepticism of my own stoic lifestyle seems convoluted and approaching disaster. But my heart continues to pump this black, black blood thick, that sickens me to the soul. My life a disaster gone out of control.
The Mist:
Out in this place it’s hard to tell if he is being followed or left behind. This arid land drenched in hatred. It’s relentless this hardpan, endless.
The Man:
Is this hell or merely visions? It must be real for my body burns with friction.
The Mist:
His breath is blue, the land is red. The eyes become glass. His body sheds.
He stands in the desert he is falling through dreams. Walking in sand. Running through dreams.
The Man:
I can’t complain I’ve brought this on myself with a life full of listless campaigns and mistakes. Headed towards the plains suffer I must but in peace it will be. Far away from the snakes and the heat.
So coarse is the world. This grit: unbearable.
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2. |
-
03:01
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3. |
Drift
09:12
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The Mist:
The dead pan drift. Sifting through sand, walking for days, in a heat ridden haze. It seeps of hate in a shimmering glaze that poisons your mind into thinking things like hope and long forgotten memories.
Every step is a timeless landscape of bloody battles. Metaphysically turning the mind into a sinister wasteland of pride.
The Man:
With the last of my coin I purchase my freedom. It dilates and numbs the senses. Leaving the body numb and lifeless. But I sleep my only respite when I reach a clearing I will take my life. But this cowardice keeps me ever close to this heart I hold so bitter. The life of the stoic, a tale of regret.
Strangely before this I never believed in fate. A predestination for those whose lives are blank. Never have I followed my dreams with a hopeless embrace. Now all I care about is finding peace.
Familiar he was as if met in a dream, his face slowly wilting into the breeze. His teeth blew to sand when he spoke to me. Suddenly becoming detached I start to drift, and feel I am entering a strange distant place.
The Mist:
Drugs you can buy, but redemption is what you need. The dark side of this coin will find peace for your mind. Brightness leads to the plains of demise. The path you must follow is the one you left behind. Ride back to where the end began. The moon will guide your path revenge will guide your hands. Finish what started with the crucifying of the damned.
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4. |
Descent
13:32
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The Man:
Riding west! The vastness of it all sucking me in. Tremors in my hands, am I ready to make my stand? All I’ve ever lived is this decent into the maddening depressive abyss. To reach out and touch hope is highly dismissive. A brief understanding of faith and metaphysics combine into newfound religion. And in a heart appears the rekindling of a flame; the re- emergence of hope the re- emergence of prosperity the re- emergence purpose.
It’s been so long since I started inhaling my time. That I never truly left the dust of life…..and now the bigger picture is clear.
My whole life I’ve travelled from crossroad to crossroad, trying to earn an honest damnation. Now, to seek what dare not be sought and assume that of the enlightened, to change fear into illumination.
The Mind:
Never trusting anyone I’ve met. It’s always led to this love of contempt. They’ve all simply been images as I smoke myself to sleep. To ease the burdens brought by dreams, where in them wading through seas and the words within speak of failed destinies and the lost rights to the life I could’ve made.
So frequently and frantically do we hear the spewing of the dead as they are honored in long drawn out stories. As if the precipice of existence was to sit and listen instead of realizing its all just happenstance.
The Man:
White hot vengeance burning through my veins. Galloping across the desert plains. Embracing death and reaching for my guns. Tools of demise your day has come, to harvest the seeds I’ve sewn, that sprouted this life, so hollow. Making amends and becoming the righteous. A sacrifice to be made as an example to find your own way.
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