One-hundred eleven: the devil is here. I walk into the water, watch the sun overpower. On an island of mercy in a sea of heat. The thinker he worshipped lost his mind in this desert, bounced string melodies off the rocks in the evening. But his handprints don’t show. They don’t wave to me now. Because I could not live like a hard bitten man dying down in a sinkhole, staring at shiny metal, I will watch the team go up the vanishing road. And they let the screen guide them: the wrong kind of attention. The van falls off a cliff, takes the future with it. Could’ve golfed in the shade, as the lawns wilt away. They shout until they’re blue in the face. They dive into the deep of the basin. I see them return. It’s not like a movie. The coyotes don’t see me. I try not to go out after nine in the morning. Birds drop out of the sky. I don’t want to be left behind. Then life springs up from under my feet. I know it’s trying to tell me something. I kneel in the sand and it whispers to me. It says I belong. It says I belong.
This is the album that has gotten me through the pandemic. It has provided peace when peace was nowhere else to be found. It has provided joy when joy was elusive. It has inspired gratitude when darkness and cynicism have crept in. Thank you Andrew. Polygondwanajams