Lich

https://release.landr.com/991043478744

The distinction between soul and what's presented became clearer. I am not my art (even if that's the prevailing assumption)
Lichdom, a situation of longstanding, simmering appeal... to me.
That the phylactery (soul) could be safe, while the animated body remains practically immortal.
What isn't covered in Lichery 101: "Obscurity is the refuge of incompetence", or in other words; Irrational self-preservation is the catalyst for rot.

The harrowing spectacle of what's both dead and living, the convergence, a zero-point, infinity. Existing as that which is entirely glorious and self-defeating.
I've become myself, untouchably so, at what cost?

This track nearly wrote itself, basking in the dark rays of this familiar and tactile contradiction.
An admission of the internal schism and a longing to merge self with the appearance of self.
I so desperately want to feel again, even if it's only pain.

I've been a bit of a left-fielder the whole time. Now, allowing myself to be strengthened by typical criticisms rather than broken by them. A promise to hold the hurt parts closer and keep moving.

So what if there's no hook... does it track? Did you feel it?
Maybe noodling over repetition with no 'real' resolution in sight, say's it perfectly.

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Cobweb's cobwebs, stale predator. Smoothed jags of damp glowering, open voice's voice muttering through the endless.

Fractal cadence traces the fray's fray, a ghost shape's shape. Dragged toes to the bone, floating Dungeness corpse; awareness of the crypt of which awareness gives form to an awareness of the giving of darkened form, aware of the darkened form's form..

Forgetting the deepest forgetting. Static misery expands forever in a light blue, brighter at the center, the centering of a concentration at the light blue center, forever.
The end stuck and stretched past this point of toe dragging.

The Yin's white dot in a pit of snakes, black sperm's sperm. Inbred resonance.
That was taken from me, I was made to burn it in the fire's fire, a burning image of the burning image, ultimate recursion, death of all life.
Strange tears, like sweat on beads around a warm neck, forgotten, but there. Old questions with old answers, forsaken.

Harvest's harvest pushes up through the dust, little troughs setting in the wake of toes drug; filthy demon slobbering rivers to the trough's trough.
Towering pit of pits, madness, enduring evaporation at the light blue center. This thing turned into outward folding, to inner molding
Hands held each other, held together forever. Conjoined rings for each finger's finger.
|The being of the midst's midst, awareness, as all is a towering pit.