A small experimental collection of old tracks, including a weird improv session with no sense of rhythm--Aesthetic Anarchy; a complete deconstruction of what makes music music. The track is essentially formless, and not all that satisfying to listen to. It's just a bunch of random tones that are vaguely interesting.
In a few days I stand trial.
Judges will whisper among themselves,
Decide about meanings and motivations,
Like they were present to everything.
Those were my breaking days, I will say,
Then I will sit back down in silence,
People will chuckle beneath their breath,
So will I,
At the seriousness of that statement,
So succinct and borderline pretentious,
But others will lean forward and listen,
Listen for the judges and maybe for myself,
But I will have nothing more to say;
When the session ends,
I've got stuff to do.
—No need for the ebony chisel,
Order is already in the court.
Sure, on the mahogany walls are stains of blood,
But that recklessness is past;
Instead, there is eager, refined hope,
Call it youth—naivety,
But I prefer hardened and bright-eyed.
The days behind me,
They were unsettled, unsettling days,
They maybe brought some--
—Well, pretty rough dismay.
But I'm here now.
And so are my friends.
We all had trials,
But we all stand here testament to…
Something, life, hope?
Yeah, I think it's hope.
That's what happens when you're thrown,
Tossed around in breaking days.