Anthropocene catastrophe haunts us, cyclic crisis come round again. I come round too, anguished beggar that I am, despised and alone. Each morning welcomes tea and emptiness, confusion in the heart, chaos in the planet, windrows aflame in some quiet corner of hell, endless possibilities for change. Everyone senses a reckoning is at hand, a strange twisted future beckoning, and everyone longs for the freedom of the storyteller making up the song as he goes along. Narratives come and go like vivid daydream, sunlight on an empty chair, abstracted mind. Memories arise, and dissipate unnoticed, of times and places long ago left behind. Everyone senses a reckoning is at hand, a strange twisted future beckoning, and everyone longs for the freedom of the storyteller making up the song as he goes along.
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Strophe and Catastrophe
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Violent Crown 