I am responsible for everything the lords of Gods surrender to the medicine. Stay home sick moods bad-tooth-noise-punk-spontaneous combustion ancient insect gathering 4 days together all hierarchy disappears letting the monster escape holiday weekend… except for my very responsibility, for I am not the foundation of my being providing maximum information with minimum movement combined to a shrine worship of old school legends. Therefore everything takes place as if I were compelled to be responsible, ouroboros the circle is the truth they should keep playing but there is always a new band. I am abandoned in the world of dissonant groove-metal quiet loud quiet fuckery… in the sense that I find myself suddenly alone in unbearable reality and beautiful illusions and thunderstorms and without help except the laughing man cometh buy him a beer, engaged in a simple-ultra-vibes-hardcore world for which I bear the whole responsibility without being able, whatever I do, to tear myself away from this responsibility for an instant eating candles ambience. Man-saves-man cannibalism can will nothing unless he has first understood that he must count on no one but himself with deep textures of life and sounds and sloppy tones clusterfuck in good ways; that he is alone, abandoned on earth in the midst of his infinite responsibilities back and forth five bits to one, without help, with no other aim than the one he sets himself with twenty-foot-stare pillars of light organic unity sonic abstractions, with no other destiny than the one he forges for himself on this darkest-roast-vomit earth drum medium introducing disorder of form and function.Man is a useless passion purity never attained but attempted, the highest task of tragedy, and comedy.
Life has no meaning a priori – as good as measuring infinity, or electricity power outage. Sonic Youth goes heavier noise’s choir rated R lyrics as an image like Pop art… It is up to you to give it a meaning life irrational, consistency is fake, surrealism rules music linguistics as a symbol to be read, cats. There-is-a-god archaeology eat mud, and value is nothing but the meaning that you choose, the silence of love triple catharsis instinct as survival and pleasure, fragile moments like touching and singing, expression of body as voice intense. Man, being condemned to be free like the sonic Burroughs paranoia layer enjoy-the-ride-he-ain’t carries the weight of the whole world on his shoulders, the future already exists; he is responsible for the world of basement melodies and room 1013 the other world Mortimer’s back spot mystic rats infested and himself as a way of being like sleazy ghost vocals the dead talk, myth as source primitive noises earth water fire jumping Pee-wee Hermanish sludge-fest fight creations only to be destroyed, expectations.
All human actions are equivalent, confrontational dynamics... and... all are on principle doomed to failure like scummy lightless old factories and proto-punk context-1969 night times numbers inflate space, time and tones. It is certain that we cannot escape mind-as-iron-wall-undisturbed hit-it-ouch-anguish with a huge aura floating to the stars, for we are anguish. Man is condemned to be free; because once that depth-vs-complexity-dualism-guitar-wars neo-Stooges riff is thrown down into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.