THE PLAIN TRUTH - We drifted through it, arguing. Every day a new war crime, every day a flower bloom. We sat down together and wrote it in one room, and then sat down in a different room, recording.

NO TITLE - What gestures make sense while tiny bodies fall? What context? What broken melody? And then a tally and a date to mark a point on the line, the negative process, the growing pile. The sun setting above beds of ash while we sat together, arguing. The old world order barely pretended to care. This new century will be crueler still. War is coming. Don’t give up. Pick a side. Hang on. Love.