end times

The fact that, perversely, I was unable to open the file sent by their manager pre-release was to some extent a blessed relief, given that I was a little unwilling to enter into Mark Oliver Everett\’s own personal hell quite so soon after my own documented devolution into single cell stasis and back. To participate gladly in the disinterment of terminal injury and peek beneath the dressing.

Apologies, then, that this brief warming of the coals is more of a retrospective sibling murmur than it might have been.

Ultimately, you either have the stomach for it or not. The slow razorblading analysis of a once breathing corpse, and the determination to divine meaning through dissection.

Let me pause to uphold Everett\’s intention. And my own simple belief in catharsis. \”End Times\” is not a release for the faint-hearted, or those unwary benificiaries of a still beating transplant.

When you are there you are there. Stuck between the endgame and the gummy sutures which narrow from smile to sneer; to abbreviated condolence.

The practised indifference of civil servants. Solicitors. Contracted auctioneers.

The fear of indolence is weightier than the fear of exposure and the crushing thirst for atonement. End Times.

The dirt kicked up on the roof of Susan\’s House. A broken record. Me, I was left pissing in the sink. Or the measuring jug I subsequently emptied. The Plimsoll line on an unforgivably listing tug.

EELS: A LINE IN THE DIRT from \”End Times\” CD (E Works) 2010 (US)


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