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Let’s trade our dreams for salaries, get jobs that we can’t stand. Carve the path towards bitterness, complaints of lives that weren’t as planned. And we won’t need vacations when our bosses feed us pills to distract us from the cages that their forced ambitions build. I want out. I want out. Dumpstered Christmas lights light my way. I want out. If shattered glass could repair my past, I would smash every bottle in the world. If wasted cash could make happiness last, I would buy too many diamonds for some girl. But these things can’t and they won’t so we gotta embrace the good times and let the tough times roll. And I know tough times may never seem to roll away but we’ll be back up on our feet again some day.
I’ve heard it all so many times before: party, drunk and passed out on the floor. But I still laugh at your story anyways, cuz it’s all still interesting in a way. And lately I haven’t cared much anyways, cuz I’m already hopeless in a way. The party left a couple days ago, where I’ll float I don’t really know. But I’ll float ‘til I’m oh-so-satisfied. Cuz floating is the one thing on my mind. I forgot my future when I forgot my past. I forgot what’s going on, because the going on it never seems to last. Could it be cuz I forgot it all, after all? After all. Counterculture’s up for sale. It’s been shipped here in the mail. Manufactured over seas by workers stripped of dignity so American teens can buy cheap tie-dye tees. Ain’t it funny how the land of the free can put a price on anarchy? “Consume,” they’ll always say. Use it once and throw it away. We’ll ship it back overseas where kids get lead poisoning from newly disposed western car batteries. Everybody knows if you displace toxicity it leaves more room to be free. No nothing lasts after all. After all.
And so Stowe’s harp is strung, that sings resolutely though played by cruel hands. Sharply plucked and out of tune, still it sounds in concord with that world. Matching it note for note until its strings wear and break. And yet there is the hope that it will sound the sweeter when played by angelic hands. Syncopation, stress the weaknesses. Articulation, define the meaning behind each note in cold concrete. Sacrifice melody to harmony. We are overcome, in our defense, by the anxiety of and to influence. To make the sounds our hearts suggest; the sounds our souls hear best. And so we lose the love to play. And so, too, the right to say this is the music we make: the strings that bend but won’t ever break.
These struggling personal kingdoms set against waves of amber grain. Is isolation truly freedom if you’ve got straw for brains? A signal for crows to feed, stuck into the rotting earth standing amongst the weeds divining dirt for holy worth. So I build these castles inside my head and guard with ramparts my jaded heart. Entrenched in the kingdom of the dead where hollow men no longer tread. And to think, doomed from the start by the nature of the thread that held me fast to my part in the fabled glory of divine art. As ignorance is my surest bliss, then I’ll sink into its tender abyss. To fade like the midnight star that tires of its eternal chore, I’d gladly extend an invitation to the simplest self-disintegration. But I simply haven’t the heart, and I’ve got no fucking soul. This is the way the world is.


ice age records number two

Two songs of self-exploring, socio-political folk punk by Torrential Downpour followed by two songs of dark, abrasive screamo by Parrhesia. Split release between Ice Age Records & Utarid Tapes.


released September 5, 2009

Ice Age Records/Utarid Tapes 2009
theiceageiscoming.net | myspace.com/utarid.tapes




ice age records Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

smoke cops, kill weed

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