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Day of Four Eyes and One Clock, 10X14X35

by The Flesh, Full of Black Sand

XXXXXXX This is black gardens. What happens here is whatever is perceived as XX real. Not you or I, but the actions we do. There is no time, however, there is a ticking clock. The clock is only used to settle one's nerves. The voices are warped, yes, but not when you come here as a sleeping soul. Sleeping soul hear my words clearly, as they are meant to be heard. If you are awake, my words will appear to be soft hushes of noises trying desperately to lull your soul back to sleep. But that is merely how I speak. What you are readi ng may appear to have mea ning, but only to your awake ned mind. If you watch closely, my n's are broken here, but not when you sleep. When you sleep, the letter n flows like a liquid form of silk, flowing through your nerve endings, much like a pixel. This is mearly an introduction, one smeared with red ink from an old type-writer, sent through many fields of light and sounds. To put it into words you can hear would be to put it to words you don't understand while you are awake. So for now, I bid you goodbye, until you fall asleep and I can talk to you in a golden voice. Goodnight.
There is coffee spilt on your brand new black carpet. It leaves a red stain. Your maid, whose name you've never bothered to learn, will never clean it. X (Sorry, I had to flip my record.) You are the only one who can X see the stain, which is getting bigger with every CLACK, CLACK, CLACK, CLACK, CLACK, CLACK, CLACK, CLACK, CLA-- of the typewriter in the next room over. (DIN G) You never even noticed the typewriter until I mentioned it. Investigate. You pass tattered chairs and end tables, slowly quickening with each step that leads you to the next room. But you stop... Hand on the doorknob. Turn door knob. Open door. Step past door..............
Step past the door. The room enter is not a room, but the dense forest outside. The sounds of typewriters is no longer around you, only a distant memory, floating in the dark air of a moonless night. Wh at you hear no w are crickets. Water. Leaves. Owls. All night sounds have to offer are dreams, but you already knew this. The night creeps into your faint coat, and a whimper escapes, but not from you. Your shadow, it's his whimper. A cough. A sneeze. Th e owl tells you he's trying to sleep, but you're already asleep, so you don't understand the question. Why? The answer is tattooed on a tree, so which one? Where? He comes alone, unlike you. He is pure white. He is white with the evil of growing coffee stains. The sounds of harsh winds have never waken you before, why should they start now?/? There is a beggar below him, never asking for cheap change. He only asks the you follow the river. He points to a tree. On the tree is the word 'XXXXXX' and an arrow pointing to a direction you never learned in school. The tells you with a toothy grin to follow him through the yers and the iourtants. They all laugh at your face. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.......
Have you heard Mantoysheksa yet? He's quite wonderful, even if you don't believe in that sort of thing. (AHEM) Where was I? Ooohh,,, yyyeeesss...... The song bird, beggar, arrow, tree, "XXXXXX", and stain all laugh at you. This is a nightmare, but only because you allowed it to be. You never had to listen to my directions, you only did because I was the only one telling you to go anywhere. So, I shall continue. Right past the arrow you walk. You follow the map you have wished for, the shadow and stain following so dearly and closely. But y u watch. There is black space all around you, imitating the rushing river. But you can see it, forget jasdfg, you follow her. Numbers follow as well. Big, vibrantly coloured letters they are. Follow Shakespeare, don't follow you. Giants with long, flowing hair stand gaurd along the river as you approach it. The water is red. Stained white, but red and purple. The accordian player falls into a player accordian. Confusion. Jaksemof. ;/,#. Lies. Your name is number and it's being caled out from the loudspeaker in a crowded waihting rooom. A lie, she calls. You awake. Or not. However, it is time cigarette. Wouldn't you agree █?


This album is actually one song, but it had to be broken down into four movements to be able to be put on here. Each track is one of the movements, but think of it as what it is, which is one song.


released October 7, 2012




The Flesh, Full of Black Sand Colorado Springs, Colorado

TW: Some album and song titles talk of suicide and other mental illness things. This is my outlet but I understand that it’s not the same for everyone.

Minimalistic, droning, dark ambient created by Dakota Snaketail.

Listen alone in a dark room with candles lit, or while you're falling asleep.
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