Beneath the daylight where we sleep, the orchestral avalanche of passing cars and the mechanical grind of the system that enslaves has left us haunted and empty.
As we push and pull, we rise and fall into the crowded noise like static – the constant clouding of our sunshine minds.
Mute days descend into tired months – the repetition of existence. Only the shroud of night offers salvation, the blackened blanket staving off the apocalypse of isolation.
At the zero hour, we gather in the darkness searching inner paths to outer worlds – an escape from the counterfeit dreams of our clockwork lives. Howling like wolves in a synchronous serenade, we seek out the machines – the ghostly shrines.
We are waking up.