There's nothing left and why would there be?
It's no mystery to me, though it pains me nonetheless to sit here and experience it while the seasons change and the pinestraw piles outside. My door hangs still, just enough ajar to invite in a cool, stale draft. My hands lie listless in my lap, the fingers pointing towards nowhere in particular. The creme-pink walls begin to turn cobalt gray as the sun fades outside.
A city bustles in the slowly encroaching night - engines, horns, idle chatter on crosswalks lit by beaming streetlamps. It is always just a little further than before, and a haze hangs swaying in the threshold between this house and the night beyond, softening its sounds to a dull hum. It reminds me of monks chanting in procession in an ancient monastery or meditating crosslegged in a temple. In the day, the monks quietly study. In the afternoon, they perform tasks and casually discuss things they've learned. In the evening, they gather for dinner. All sat along a long table they look down at their stone bowls and notice there's nothing left -
and why would there be?
If they'd wanted more they wouldn't have been monks anyway. It's no mystery, though having solved it they are nonetheless pained by hunger as they walk the halls listlessly starving while the seasons change and the pinestraw piles outside. The monastery door hangs still, just enough ajar to invite a cool, stale draft. They sit crosslegged, hands empty in their laps, fingers pointing madly but at no one in particular. The creme-pink walls begin to turn cobalt gray as the sun fades outside.
A woods bustles in the slowly encroaching night - insects, loons, the chatter of frogs on waterways lit by moonbeams. It is always just a little further than before, and a haze hangs swaying in the threshold between this monastery and the night beyond, softening its sounds to a dull hum. It reminds me of a custodian humming tiredly to himself as he mops the floor of a school after the school day is done. In the day the children quietly study. In the afternoon they take their last class and are assessed on what they've learned. In the evening they are home for dinner. They are sat at tables, and later the custodian looks down the halls and nods there's nothing left -
and why would there be?
The day is long done, and if there was more he wouldn't care anyway. It's no mystery, though having solved it he is nonetheless pained by fatigue as he leaves the halls spotlessly, exiting while the seasons change and pinestraw piles outside. The janitor's door hangs still, just enough ajar to invite a cool stale draft. He sits heaped over, hands twitching in his lap, fingers pointing at no time in particular. The creme-pink walls begin to turn cobalt gray as the sun fades outside.
A desert bustles in the slowly encroaching night - winds, coyotes, the clatter of sand on stony pathways with no light. It is always just a little further than before, and a haze hangs swaying on the threshold between the school and the night beyond, softening its sounds to a dull hum.
It doesn't remind me of anything.
If you're reading this - Gods of the Dead is the good one. Listen to that first if you're going to listen to anything on here. It's actually pretty solid.
The new EP from Scottish songwriter Alec Bowman_Clarke goes deep, setting vulnerable lyrics to gentle melodies & stripped-back arrangements. Bandcamp New & Notable Oct 30, 2021
