Woke up three times last night breathing nervous about shit that should have been done two yesterdays from now. Numb, red-eyed, screaming at someone who could have been there: the other half, at the same time perfect and the serene embodiment of all my flaws. You should never have to look in the mirror in a day such as this. Pseudo-jet-lag can make reflections very unforgiving. Brain starts to function, finally phasing in, information pulses, flows as possibilities thin and results become the expected. Five minutes ago I was dreaming of talking cats and hidden rooms, now there's a desk waiting for me, hypoallergenic plastic flowers, witty saying on tea cup. All very neat and tidy. I face the computer's blank screen, still waiting for that silent confession: I see the world in numbers. I see the pattern in us. The walls are built around us, bind us to protect the vultures. I am the world in numbers, I am the pattern in us. Dazed beyond any change, I find my luck in the number 111 I tell myself this lie, every night when alone. Another restless day passed in sheep's skin fading to normality holding on to the certainty that things will soon change, no more repetition without function. Within me lives the snake, a taste for difference comes when I'm asleep. Desire for a different art, a feel for the abstract, need another dimension, Jack of hearts breaks out of his cocoon. Planning a strike at the very flank of sanity, distortion and mutation, all part of the system, spectrum-enhanced, not program limited. Only brute outcome. Results may vary. Deny the world in numbers. See through the pattern in us. Tear down the walls around us, leave no bounty to the vultures. Deny the world in numbers, transcend the pattern in us. Dazed beyond any change I find my luck in the number 111. The wars of our days are fought in silence. The truths we find clear are never honest.
Pinturas Negras is the band that ended the world. Its written history has been pieced together from sources as
varied as the menu of a long gone Chinese restaurant or the obituary section of a 19th century English newspaper. The music is heavy. The words follow suit, crafting a sound not unlike the stranger side of MTV2 from twenty years ago....more