"Cinèma Veritè is a bridge between modern sensibilities such as post-rock and 70s psych-rock vibes (Think Pink Floyd, King Crimson)"
Layer upon looped layer of electric guitars combine to create dense atmospheres of sound.
It's funny what we used to believe. Funnier still the faith we have forgotten. Hiding in dark corners of consciousness, the inner mind takes flight. There are no boundaries to imagination, but mixed doubles tests the soft edges, quicksand pulling at your feet, magnetic melody draws you into its orbit and spins you around, the dizzying dance of stars, black hole arpeggio takes you apart like a celestial surgeon exposing the dark matter of your soul.
There is still time. It's not too late. Don't say that. There is still time. As yet... The sky is falling, but we have helmets. We can endure. Say it. Believe. Don't be afraid of the spin of the earth. Gravity will catch you. Take my hand. It's not too late. There is still time, as yet... Don't be afraid of the rain. It will wash our sins away. Don't be afraid of the lightning. It will sterilize our souls in blinding fire. An unbalanced electrical charge in the atmosphere, nothing more. Don't be afraid. Quiet now. Let me cradle you in my claws, hold you close, pierce/penetrate you with infected love. It's not too late. Don't be afraid, as yet...
Remember him? He used to play here, right? Colorful fella. Sure. I remember. Falling like a bungee diver into love, into forever, the rhythm of hearts entranced by passion, enchanted, it was so warm that night, and the tropical breeze sea salt taste of your skin, i could have eaten you alive right there, as he played that tribal beat that made us all dance spastic ecstatic until dawn broke on the beach and only you and i were left standing in the sand and surf, washed up things that moved with the tide, waiting for the pull of the moon to call us home again, in each other's arms so briefly, a quick flash fry, the blink of a bored spectator, we spit in the eye of nothing, and build a fire against eternal darkness. He used to play here. Right here. I remember.
She was 15, and had never been kissed, but that didn't stop her from dreaming, from conjuring up the darkest sin imaginable, the impossible passion of the innocent, so eager to taste forbidden fruit. And why not? What's so wonderful about blissful ignorance except the loss of imagination? The flesh is real, and weak, made of smoky dreams and sorrow, hope and nightmares. It doesn't matter, anyway. Nothing ever does or will. But kiss me anyway. Kiss me again. Suck/eat my face and i'll do yours until we're nothing but laughing skulls in love. Kiss me much. Kiss me a lot. Kiss me again and again. Embrasse-moi fort. Stale ma bozkavaj. Suutele minua. Szeretlek én. Mara beboos. I can taste your beautiful rot.