1224 28 lv 1 re obliteration b скачать в хорошем качестве

1224 28 lv 1 re obliteration b

https://dingndents.bandcamp.com/album... A worn wood floor, softened only by a faded rug beneath the bed. Across the room, a narrow bookshelf holds some alibi volumes on chemistry, engineering, and the occasional novel, their spines dulled with age, their content unread for years. The air is stale, carrying faint hints of oil and medicine. The contraption of ropes and pulleys above the bed loom at Thomas Midgley's contemporary reincarnation. Nibbling on rests of knowledge in his mind, he starts mumbling. "Hearsay, but there is nothing to hear." I carry no weapons in my pockets to set history’s chaos right, no seductive force to impart the last ideological despair to the youths—despair I’ve only faced since the poison was handed to me to drink. I'm not searching for California, no more for silicone breasts than for silicon valleys, and if - on my way to the simulation of a promised land - I would strike down anyone, I could only reach for myself, with a lethargy and boredom that seeps out of every pore, drowned out by the ever-growing roar of what’s been missed. In my mind are no Huns and no Hannibals to fend off, no invasions over mountains, through Alpine caves or Carpathian forests. Ayn reclines there with Bergson in the ethereal summer hay of past centuries. Their dusty embrace is the quantum mechanics of morality. Kant and Beckett endlessly play an eternal chess match with infinite patience, each move identical to the last, the game multiplying itself at every turn. And they are willingly wishing ideologies back? We can congratulate ourselves: metaphysics is ours alone now. No Alexander, no Napoleon, no Stalin desires to take it from us. The clarity of totality faded away with the end of terrible talk shows, with the Britts and Arabellas (Oprahs and Ricki Lakes) of the ’90s. We did not storm our schools with the paroles of our fathers. We plan nothing revolutionary, nothing stirring or inventive, neither in garages nor in basements. The vast, windowless parlours have been exchanged for the ever-milky glow of screens—an inexhaustible faith in the truth of glowing crystals stretched behind barely visible grids, while bloated meanings spew forth until they starve. I sit and stare, gawk, from park benches, sofas, armchairs, and beds, our hands occasionally touching. I don’t flee to paradise but to the miserable game of affirming pale, hollow self-awareness. We sink the masses into our doomed, leaking ship, stowing barrels full of maggot-ridden embryos—only to drive them to the ocean’s darkest depths, soaking ourselves in the briny waters. Leading leaded lights. A waiting turned bright, a carousel, a dice machine for the times of day—this hour born of chance. Artworks - Grischa Lichtenberger (https://grischa-lichtenberger.com/) Text - Grischa Lichtenberger Video - Grischa Lichtenberger Mastered By Kim, Changhee Mixing & Mastering Studio - AML (Axis Mastering Lab) Producer - Grischa Lichtenberger dnd_EM24102_7002