dream

my own reflection in the mirror raped me

augustiskog

en bädd av färglös mull
granar avbarrade
köldätna, tungkyssta
av arktiska läppar ovanifrån.
skjutandes som spiror
från en fnöskig bädd av färglös mull 
i naturens basilika
äro de ståtliga, granarna -
en kämpande uppländsk skog på sommarens yttersta brant;
september hugger med giftpilständer!
sav droppar alltid blod på höstens första natt.
att betrakta allt detta,
inger kraftfullt känslan
att det, som det är i sig självt, finnes ruinenwert
i naturen, som är allt:
skönheten i skönhet förfallen
är det skönaste jag vet.
 
urskogens artilleripjäser - stalinorglar i ekträ -
uppradade barrträd pipmynningar riktade mot det högsta
gungfly, höstkalla gölar, kalhyggen är en gravid kvinnas tvivel. 
ett dödfött litet barn
av drivved
skvalpar i ett vassigt vattenbryn, och skummet virvlar.
augustisolen bränner över fnöskbäddar
mossa och dy i simultan självantändning -
skogsbranden våldtar allt i sin väg!
gyttja på gyttja kokande kärrmark skogen kollapsar in i sig själv
alnarna skriker i rå samstämma -
björkskogen lever vandött
och tar med tunga steg klivet
framåt, mot vinter. 

"Allt vi ville var att smaka på er"

slovensko

Today, we got a libation from Slovakia, along with some more hair to our collection.

självbedrägeriet

en åsklik näverlur smeker vidderna -
ikväll rör sig vargen ovanligt nära byarna.
månen kastar ett fullt lömskt öga
och kåtslagna skökor förenas med svagnackade oxar
under högt hängda mistlar av tyfus och gonorré.
mödrarna känner oro
och en diffus känsla av förtret
som vibrerar håligheten i deras bröstkorgar
där själen en gång rungat vildsint
men nu ersatts bittert
av mödraskapets tunga boja.

fäder byter oförståelse mot raseri
men inte ens sjuttiotvå rapp av brännande läder
kuvar en djävuls ögon -
i uppror samlas alla barnen
och dränker sig själva
i den bottenlösa himmelen -
en stank av härsket blod lägger sig.

barnen sprudlar av upprymdhet
vid åsynen av de fallande stjärnorna:
önskningar detonerar som kraftfulla bomber
över ögonvitor som briserar i katarakt
men det har alltid varit för sent -
stjärnorna är redan döda.
de dog för en lång tid sedan,
och sålunda gjorde även deras drömmar.
imorgon kommer dom att bli varse
denna gastkramande
och järnhårda verklighet.
men först ikväll -
en självbedrägeriets sista natt.

Flyer for second Slutet demo cassette, "...And the Great Cunt Wept". September 2014.

Two libations.

sprattet

det blev plötsligt väldigt svårt. att veta orden. det vill inte komma fram och hela språket i sig blev som någon typ av andnöd, kvävs när ljuden ekar tillbaks in i halsen. men likt förbannat sipprar det ut. vad pysslar jag med här egentligen, jag trycker på knapparna och denna eviga jävla debatt om huruvida jag är ärlig med mig själv, med orden, just nu. det där med att skilja lögnen och frestaren från det där som ska vara det andra. det andra och det här. om och om igen.
och så har jag gått omkring och blivit rädd för mig själv. frågan: är det här verkligt? det där då? var det där på riktigt, eller var det inte så. kan inte låta bli att tycka det hela känns lite roligt nu, någon slags kosmisk humor i det hela. ett stort spratt. kul.
den där lilla dispyten, som ju ändå gett upphov till allt. ett utomordentligt jämrande, som en liten tant som gnyr och gnuggar kroppen mot golvet inne i huvudet. och i henne ytterligare en liten tant, och i henne en om och om igen.
nej det går ju egentligen inte att säga. och så gnyr det sig: varför så mystisk för? säg det bara. men nej det går ju faktiskt inte. får för mig att jag ska som ställa massa små frågor, plantera små frön i krukorna och se om jorden är bördig. men varför det DÅ DÅ? ja inte vet jag. det eller bli tyst, och rätt så tyst har jag nog blivit. där har vi sprattet igen, egentligen skriker jag ju, gnuggar kroppen mot kullerstenarna och drar i kjolar, begär svar. "snälla ni är ju ändå kvinna! du kan väl säga mig?" något på det viset, blev det i huvudet, för dakini kali och hon bakom ögonlocken och tydligen andra flickors hallucinationer med.
men åh, sprattet igen, Sprattet säger jag nu. Sprattet, för det blivit som någon typ av barnsligt moderlig kram av en reflektion av en idé i huvudet som också är idén och då mig och ett sånt oändligt spratt i sig!
för egentligen, blir jag bara ledsen av alla svar. om jag lägger mig på gågatan, och skriker frågor. eller viskar gåtan till mannen som (vidskeplighet är för mig något annat nu, orden ja, dom går ju inte) i min fylla måste gett upphov till ett halvt dubbelseende, kanske sätter upp någon liten lapp, stirrar ängsligt på någon som ser mycket ofrisk ut eller. ängslig. ängslig heter det mer. ängslig. osäker och rädd för mig själv. av era svar.
jag väntar på de tysta. kom till mig. de som bara stirrar i mig, på det sättet som gör mig osäker på om de blivit berörda till någon form av pojkkärlek eller om det är ren ondska jag nu faktiskt bevittnar i en blick. göder tantens gnidningar mot tinningen, ja för att osäkerheten får mig att fortsätta förakta mig själv. men på ett annat sätt. det liksom tillåts. förvirring och allt sånt. och att det får vara så. och att det bara är ord. och att det vets. och att ni inte kan komma, jag vet för ni är där (annars skulle jag inte vilja ha er här).

att Sprattet, sprattlar, baklänges in i sig själv.

VI IX
boken uppochner

gud

du föreställer dig gud,
som en helbrägdagörare
som knäpper sina fingrar
över himlavalvets giljotiner.
du föreställer dig gud,
som en säkerhet; en livlina;
en någonting; en vakare över den dödssjuke;
en sval hand på febriga pannor världen över
insjuknade i nihilismens ebola -
besvikelsen är din lott.

att tillämpa ett exoteriskt förhållningssätt med gud
är att konstruera ett andligt luftslott -
en illusorisk högborg; en dunstkrets
av projicerade försvarsmekanismer utskjutna
ur taniga, krampande hjärtan;
som jordpiggsvinets taggar
svarar mot rovdjurets ursinnesvrål
svarar likaledes det krampande hjärtat
med taggar av förruttnad självkänsla,
och rädsla; självtvivel; svaghet; förebråelse
mot det allra, allra högsta - oförståeliga -
som sättes på ståtliga piedestaler
besmyckade kolonner
huggna ur självbedrägeriets berggrunder;
hamrade i dogmernas smedjor;
lindade i oskuldsskrud och smörjda, sedan,
av människornas avskräde.

gudsbegreppet kommer till i syrefattiga samlag
mellan dödsångesten och laglösheten;
en människa är sällan värdig sin intelligens,
men aldrig förefaller detta lika uppenbart,
som när du försöker sig på
att tolka det numinösa (ett arbete som tvivelsutan efterlämnar
digra fossil av självförnekad underkastelse).
att anförtro det hela åt den abrahamitiska gudom
vi känner som allah; jahve; adonai,
när ditt krampande hjärta skriker panikslaget
efter mening; värde; syfte (det stora tomrummet kräver detta;
avgrunden begär detta)
är en kapitulation och en förlust 
som saknar själsligt motstycke.

dina strupar har blivit öknar
efter sekel av törstande
efter en kalk
din gud aldrig givit dig.

du förnekar samverkan i ett gudomligt koppleri
som skakat paradisiska grundvalar
sedan Kristus predikade
och grät som ett barn
och flaxade sina armar
uppe på asgamarnas kröningsplatser
och matade sina tamhundar
så som måsmamman matar sina nykläckta avkomlingar
med liten värdelös fisk.

Unused Slutet flyer draft.

An excerpt from a longer story, part III

I have slit the throats of my enemies, but in reality, they are my best friends. I hate them for their compassion and their willingness to help me, for I do not deserve any of it, and yet I cannot say to them that I do not want it, because something degraded and puny in me wants it badly. Everything I care for seems to vaporize, like grey clouds, and I cannot tell left from right, or right from wrong, or love from hate. I cannot tell apart feelings of determination, self-awareness, character, strength, from feelings of confusion, self-loathing, destructivity towards myself and others…

I force myself to embrace the idea of post-mortal spiritual states so that I – even in death – can repent the wickedness of my life. With every fiber of my being I vomit the purging emesis of my conscience so that it drenches my white body and fills up all the orifices until they resemble volcanic craters clogging by the minute as the beige vomit stiffen like magma in the cold air… Hearken! I have raped the ones I love; I have thrust with bestial force their naked bodies! My fists have collapsed the faces of dear comrades; my teeth gnaw my father’s bones to dust and my words curse my mother’s cunt. It has been said over and over; humans are given birth out of seraphic grace, and, sculpted passionately in the image of the most awesome and splendorous miracle of life as designed by the great Creator himself, they are beautiful… their smiles ignite the furnace of hearts and their acute sobbing calm mothers over ethnic and cultural and national boundaries: the birthing of the human child is conceived as clean, pure, untainted, even though it – in its more scenic and visceral aspects – must be the most horrifying and gut-wrenching physiological mechanism we know of – even more so than the very conception of it, which, in its own right, is appalling!

The birthing of the human child is the extraordinary repulsiveness, if it not were for its psycho-emotional implications in the humans… Bodily fluids coalescing and seeping into holes they should never have seeped into, save for in nauseating and unbound corridors of depraved fantasy… the revolting smell of a woman’s innards … red-pinkish slabs of human offal irritating the nostrils and the eyes, which tear – the content of a pregnant woman’s belly prolapsed and expulsed like someone dropped a heavy stone on the swelled stomach of a gassy corpse left for a number of days bloating under Satan’s sun; a sculpture of flesh with a head too wide to fit into the breadth of the strained vagina weeps and screams and twitches its ape-like fingers and clenches to whatever it can find in order to drag itself into the warmth of her womb again; the walls of the vulva tearing to the unsettling disharmony of her agonized screaming; it is surely a funeral – not a celebration – for the unborn! … Blood spurts out in nauseating quantities, mixing with the feces of the woman forcefully expelled from the blotted anus after hours and hours of a self-control lost; it is an outright bothersome scene – yet the search for it continues; the appraisal of it seems timeless and never does it halt; it is the thread binding the woman together with her beast ancestors! Years come and years go… minutes and hours pass and melt into the disfiguring cyst on mankind’s back called history, and whole eras dilapidate into their own fatigue; the whole life spans of the most splendorous of men just vanish into that magnificent maelstrom, which is whirling incessantly, inexorably… and we choose to call it time… three days ago, we ploughed the soil beneath us with whittled stone; the day after we read and wrote and thought and wept over our existences, and yesterday man took his first trembling steps on the moon orbiting our spectacular planet… Yet it stands monolithic – the woman’s love for her ripe belly!

Amongst all the biological debris and the filth and the stench and the diabolical and indescribable pains of a woman’s labor, they kindle themselves an undying light that guides them through the centuries, which is the most iridescent beauty, and the light of the world… the birth of a child… the unsharpened diamond of a woman’s life… But does not the human become a pig at the moment of birth, as the mother fails to wash its pink flesh with her beast-tongue? No matter how sincere her gesture, her tongue cannot reach the filthiest holes of her baby’s body; she tries, without success, to clean her child’s rectum from the clogging meconium, and the throat from mucus and bile, which inhibits its breathing, and even attempting to wash sin away from his underdeveloped phallus… the foreskin roiling back and forth… You think of the child as clean, innocent, pure, and uncorrupt – but is he not rather born filthy with the ability to lick himself clean, at best?  If human nature – of which the human child is the irrefutable symbol – was inherently – as it is in itself – clean, uncorrupt; a vessel of innocence and goodness, and if the human child was the ripe fruit dangling from those twigs, then you would need to celebrate murder, rape, destructivity in order to flee the guillotine of self-deceit and deception of others…

And if you stand proud amid the echoes of your own words, which are imbued with an almost unconditional loyalty towards our human nature, then revel in meanness toward one another…! Wicked cruelty and abuse, impetuous racism, weakness in the flesh and primal states of egotism…! Unrestrained and derailed will of survival and hedonism spilling over into the crystal ponds of egalitarianism, humanism, solidarity, compassion… embittering them and making them a poison for all the children to drink… All of this barbarity, this spinelessness, inherited from the father – nothing more than a roaming beast, no better than the ape, with his roused cock – and his mother – puny, fragile, weak in her motherly instincts, submissive to the cold seed of her lover… is defining the human condition as it is, as it has been! And the conglomeration of these bestial and complementary sides of the human spectacle is also the ultimate human relation: the final stage of primeval love-making; the mending of the opposite life-sustaining principles of man and woman; and what a loathsomeness it very often is! When the phallus enters whatever hole he has chosen, something amazing – disgusting – takes place, and all the other women flocks around the love-making couple in awe; Amen! Amen! “Tonight we welcome a family member”; carry out the ceremonies; roll out the royal carpet… When the fig leaf is ripped from her vagina, the world, with all the eager cocks, invade her, not knowing of the consequence; soon this belly ripple with latent nightmares and a pregnancy the father could not by any means handle…  A human becomes a piglet when it is pushed out of its mother and roils in the dirty cesspools, and it will soon call the pigsty a second home, where it will grow and grow and grow and grow until it is fat and thickened with porcine shame, and I think of it, really, as if the world was a cadaver, and all the piglets were maggots browsing in the sulphurous and rot-stenched decomposture of it… I think of them to be in the exact same roles like those of the maggots disintegrating the carcass… they, though, are not maggots, and the earth is not really a cadaver, but these are just mere words, and we should not get stuck on them, because beneath the surface, the whole thing looks the very same…

The End Commune, early winter 2014. 
Written during the chorus of a great year:
A personal annus mirabilis. 

An excerpt from a longer story, part II

What a black, hideous obscenity love can be; what a monstrosity, which masticates and swallows and digests in its abominable bowels our whole lives… I have felt it firsthand, if not its whole destructive power, then at least my body have been tattered with fragments from its explosion … who can flee such a thing? Through its punishing tracts we are forced to wander shackled like coal-faced slaves, given the choice to instead paint ourselves into melancholic corners with the colors of loneliness and dejection... in isolation from friend and foe, aloof from the beauty of a smile or the symphonious melody of a loved one’s laughter…

Away from the smell of human meat and of human skin which lures us into trancelike states, which we love so much, that lavender incense of genitalia – the fragrant serenades which vibrates the hairs in our nostrils and curls us like dogs under the cane! For we are merely human… and I have yet to meet the depraved genius unwilling to love! In its primeval mists, which engulfs us in the complete spectrum of human emotion that washes over us like the magnificent tsunami destroying without selection and prejudice, we dance backwards to the bleating monotony and shrill whines of its mysterious pipe… the dying and the silence of it is suffering to most of us and thus we define ourselves as love-capable beings, because the spoils of that war is not valuable enough to us… We cannot imagine for ourselves a life without it, and so we continue carrying the crushing weight of it. Man cannot stand the merest idea or even the suggestion of a loveless life, and he who can, is sick of heart, we say.

The possibility of the human being to suppress that profoundness I hold as unlikely, but there are surely people capable of just this culpability towards the human depth itself; a myriad times I have been taught and forced to learn the erratic nature of the human, which does seem to have as many fixed courses for its destructive flood as it has individual divergents straying from them! But to be the recluse of love and to wage war against the warmth of it must be the yoke crushing shoulders by the very minute and second; I cannot evoke in my thoughts a more devastating hopelessness. We condemn it as deviation and anomaly, and with the blink of an eye, we dehumanize the one unable to love; we debase the love hermit as cold of heart; indifferent to human emotion; lesser for not being as able. Sincerely, is not the want and will to love the very criterion by which we measure humanity; is it not the greatest ecumenical value? Love arises from its pitch-black repose and devours mercilessly; with hooks lodging into our naked bodies it will tear us asunder, to bits – to unrecognizable shreds of humanity – and in the end we are moist stools in its colon; we are reduced and humiliated by it, and yet we seek and continue to seek!

The hope for love dies slowly, twitching, like a diseased rat, and its very last fragment of a spark wanes cold not a single second before the irrevocability of the biological and spiritual death… It drags you down to Charybdis might... to the gluttonous maws of the depths... It has been to me, and to many of us, I must believe, what water is for the rabid, what darkness is for all the children; but what rabid can prolong their heinous disease, I tried to think, by not drinking, and what kind of child can possibly grow ripe without exploring its own darkness?

The End Commune, autumn 2014. The year of the harvest. 

An excerpt from a longer story, part I

To whom it may concern: I do not feel at all well, like the autumnal trees stripped of life hunkering over me… I have toiled and my brow has been blank with sweat, but I can not see what other sets of eyes admire, even though I try. My sinews have been torn off and I feel pain; loneliness; isolation, which I have, in all honesty, dragged upon myself. Nothing or no-one can rightfully be blamed, or should take blame, for this unimpressive puddle of leaked waste from the large shit silo of life – for I am crushed under my own conscience, and I taste bitter on the buds of the one I love: what a heinous fate… My feet no longer leave a footprint on these meadows I walk, and even when stomping into the sludge of the forest quagmires, my feet leave nothing behind, but, alas, I see the prints of a young boy still etched deep into the frozen pads of stomped soil! My rivers have risen and brought me the devastating flood; it has devoured my pastures and all my crops now float in shit water from the sewers inhabited by something enormous and horrendous...

I divide my inheritance amongst myself; it was left me from my father, Abjection, and my mother, Self-deceit! I kneel in my own tears and I look ugly and vulnerable in the laps of my friends; even before the carcass of a deer, like this one just some few feet before me, I seem emptied of life itself! I am vertiginous and ashamed at the sight of the reflection staring back when I lower my head to drink from the puddles yesterday’s heavy rain has brought me. I want to peel my skin after what I have done; my every bone is cracked upon the torturing wheel and my hands are colored blood-red; I want companionship! I seek it and I have sought to seek it, but where does sorrow reside, and weakness, and genuine, sympathy – heartfelt understanding; harmony; beyond the scopes of human social play – except for in the pitch black ugliness of my own heart? I am a pretentious fucking pig and I browse in self-pity and weakness of heart – no better am I than the fucking children I scare with mean, irritated faces in the streets of the neighbors of my upbringing. I am apologetic; remorseful; dire; I confess in all my tongues. I gnaw all these tongues with ferocity; saliva and blood… I am drought; storm; rain; I confess in all my courts, but who will finally come about and grant me the corporeal verdict? For I want whips lashing over this white body, I am deserving of nothing else. 

I am not human, but an earthquake with skin: my masochism has turned into sadism, because I do not know myself, and I feel estrangement in my skin and in great halls filled with mirrors at every direction I am an apparition, a spectre. I am wearing a shroud of scars, fitting of my dignity; terrible confessions go off like bombs upon my retina and covers in dust whatever was left of the shards of self-respect I came home to after the devil's typhoon leveled to below the ground a conscience to unattached to itself to even bear weight in the first place! Thus it disappeared in the storms of the spiritual desert, where water is pride; happiness; strength! And I, with the parched throat of conscience, took to weak shelters in camel cadavers from the sandstorms, alas, to little or no protection at all! I have wanted to pour bleach down my throat to stop future deceit from ever to grow inside the ones I love in such despicable ways again... Every word I have written – it seems to me – a fraud, so now I, with my honor at stake, will use my eloquence to sow sabotage in my own tomorrows: with words, which I choose carefully from the world's largest language to be the springboard for my self-trial – or rather self-belittlement – I will place a suicide noose around my neck. I want to tear my own tongue out so that not a single more lie will sound therefrom. I write to myself as a gesture of therapy, but, seeping with an uncomfortability and shamefulness tantamount to nothing this poor life ever has felt, I shudder in this forest, amongst whose trees I have never shuddered before, but felt security, safety, and calmness of soul! I feel the chilling of the spine at this self-mockery, which I deserve, and I, myself, am shuddersome – at least I have become.

The feelings of self-knowledge and pride rushes through the veins of my mind like the blood flows through the veins of a desomorphine addict - not at all! My self-love is a prolapsed colon and whatever comes out of it must be flushed like awkward diarrhea – fast and silent – so that no one hears it, or even smells it aloof; the vestige, even, of the fecal odor will sow and reap uncomfortable thoughts in me… I have become that weak… If there is a judging, benevolent deity now is the time to act; otherwise, fuck you, and don’t bother: I will make it my life’s work to shun the mere idea of it, the weak solace I have heard about through the years of my upbringing… I am ensnared in a heart-crushing constriction, trapped, – encircled –, by the python, and I do not know what I have gotten myself into, this “livingness”, this complete entombment into brick walls of personal responsibility, the throat-clogging judgment of a living soul… condemnation to absolute and indomitable freedom, my heredity… torn between ferocious claws of war and love protruded from an execrable monstrosity bearing life itself on its scaled reptilian back! Like a rag, strained between the hands of a life-exhausted maid, I am diluted of every drop of water… what is left of a human soul when love’s fine stream does not longer flow through it? I ask you, what is left of a human soul, when the concept of love, with all its excruciating implications, has withered to a rotted pulp, and slowly turned to muck?

In my young age, I have yet to explore the full dimensions of love – that whole new world – but I have seen beauty in gentle faces of picturesque women, I have seen friendships stronger than copper chains, I have seen family bonds that could tie even a massive galleon to its dock! But alas, I have also seen those faces grow old and wrinkled, and nothing more than bitter hags became of those ill-fated women; their only pride – the immeasurable beauty – diminished like gardens on summers end... and I can tell of countless times… I cannot even reminisce them all… but I bear in memory countless stories of friendships dissolved in petty spite… nothing more than mindless alcoholic brawls cut the bonds like knives through butter… and mothers have left their infants to the ravenous wolves in the forests by night, which has not been a rare practice in the darker ages of our history… if it is not certain, the love of a mother, then what bond can possibly endure the erosion of life? I say, none! But alas, it brings me such melancholy! Will there ever be a bond that can withstand it all, to the end? Is every human relation worthless? Is love merely a riddle, an enigma; a code, which is bearing uncomfortable truth behind layers of thinly-veiled sophistication: is love a mirage, an illusion, a euphemism: is the real word sex, love being the mere persona of procreation? Of course no one answers. But love is real, I want it to be; surely it cannot be that the collected weight of human misery, the tragic suicides, the paroxysms of brotherly violence, all the darkness of jealousy and poisonous envy following in the wake of love is merely the fruit of eon-old instincts, an iron fetter chained to the totem of nature? We cannot observe these behaviors in the animal kingdoms; beasts do not hang themselves over the body of a melancholic lover, nor do they drown in oceans of questions; they carry on, being beasts… grief is a deep cut in Gaia’s pretty face… It is a human heredity, the will and capability of love, worthy of the human soul… I have an inkling which I cannot denounce; call it a leap of faith – but love is spiritual, it must not be a bestiality; it cannot be – but of course, to know where denial, rationalization and naïve hopefulness flows into the reality of things – where one must draw a line in order to flee the morbid leech of self-deceit that will otherwise suck your veins dry – is a war in itself: thousands of casualties are daily emptied of blood… 

The End Commune, autumn 2014. 

Suddenly, as from a bolt of clarity and intuition, they recall: they can draw to mind things that have been lost - lost through the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, millennia. Things not lost in sacrifice, or given as spoils of a great war, but neglected - forgotten - to the self-devouring being of time; to the continuum of emergence, preservation and entropy, and thus lost to itself; to the great threat of itself, like a human so vivid with thoughts as to kill herself or a beautiful flower rotting from too much exposure to the very elements that once gave its life.

are you are you are you are you are you are you are you are you are you are you are you are you are you are you are you you you are you are you
are
are you
you are are you are you are you
you are are are you you
you are you are
are you you are are you are you are you
you are are you you you are are you you are
are you
are you
are you

i will meet you below the southern spruce
that is where i will hang one day
i will meet you on a karelian summer
in the shadow of that big, big tree
i will meet you at the root of it
where you pluck your beautiful flowers;
i will cough when you cough and i'll bleed
so that you'll never bleed out

i will never meet you at the southern spruce
i wanted to but i was too late
so i can just write these bad, bad lines
and hope it can reach you from here
i will take a dagger right to your heart
and taste that elixirious nectar
which fertilized the dead, dead, frozen dead soil
out of which you rose as a flower

as bloody battles toiled on by your window
so did those of your warrioress life
because you found your dimensions
and it befitted you not to be less
but no accursed war, not in the lungs nor on the field
could take the fruits away from you
which you sowed and reaped and ate
all by yourself, all by yourself

you were born an old, old soul
and fucking Raivola could not contain you -
you are a spruce; i am rain; i'm a seed - you'll live again
come and i'll lend you my lungs!
we never even met and never we will
so i might as well just shun you
but there is something here that i just can not explain
there is something with you, friend

 to E.S.

Are you dreaming? Are you dreaming now?

2014

2004

Lyric sheets for first Slutet demo, "What the End of the World Looked Like", feb. 2014.