Our commuting life is a long stretch of numbness connecting sparks of unfulfilled horror that could have put Father Karras’ and Jacob Singer’s legendary episodes to shame, if only we had looked faster.
And then we wouldn’t be here writing this, but trapped in the fortress of our own epic sanity loss, which we may well be for who knows whether this whole ‘typing away in a computer while listening to trans-hades express OST’ isn’t but a feeble flashback to the time before the dark blades of truth shredded all protective fictions around us, like the ultimate editor, cruel but fair… all of this, before We Saw.
But we digress. As far as we can remember, we haven’t seen what was there, but we have the power to imagine, more so when inebriated by darken brews such as the one motivating these words.
We imagine a pudgy conductor gambolling down the train, trailed by a elusive whiff of corruption, like the putrescent watchman of the King in Yellow.
We imagine babies twitching under colourful cartoon themed covers, shrieking as they shape-shift into something that is bat, snake and worm, and none of these things.
We imagine gangs of teenagers dumping parts of victims dismembered in filthy out-of-service toilets over the fence of Hassocks stations, running back in as the doors close, yelling, gimme five, gimme five.
We imagine fires flickering in the arcadian fields of Balcombe, under the proud viaduct and the impassive moon, they illuminate silhouettes in the darkness, some of them look human, some of them less so.
We are thankfully spared these sights by our own reflection in the train glass, why did you think they keep the lights on as we cruise down the fields at night?
They know that the moon does weird things then, they don’t want us to see. So we imagine.
All of the above was inspired by listening to Thousand Foot Whale Claw in our daily commute to London Victoria. We haven’t yet dared listening to it in the tube. Well, actually we have, but we’ll tell you about it some other day. We recommend strongly that you pre-order their Dope Moons Volume One from Monofonus.
It comprises a collection of love letters to our Lady of Darkness, sent from the cells of an asylum built with sheets of Antarctican Ambient and pillars of umbran steel, deformed by acid. In some places, it sounds like evil too pure to manifest itself, preferring to lurk in the background, a low-level radiation of the same colour as old blood. In some others, it sounds like the army of darkness’ equivalent of pre-club drinks. We love both.
And as a bonus, here you have an as-yet-unreleased video of Led Er Est’s Sanneta (they gave us the tip on TFWC by the way) by Marcus Harrling. It is very beautiful. It reminds us where all these epic images come from. They come from small groups of people who sometimes stand together a chilly morning, staring at the severe, vaguely dystopian shapes of a financial district, envisioning the colossal shadows that coil within, may rise behind. And then they make them happen.
Go and buy The Diver from Sacred Bones if you haven’t yet.
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