Fuck it, right?
Life's too hard and love's the same.
They drag us, pull us and they treat us with disinterest most of the time.
They seek out our weakest points and then apply all pressure on them.
They break us and then sweep us into a pile for the dustpan.
We'll just get thrown into a mass grave, with the coffee rinds, the rest of the eggs that didn't get finished, the cut up credit cards, the used Kleenex and dirty diapers.
The battles are hell.
The wins are few and at such a cost.
St. Louis band Living Things sing, "I feel no pain cause pain don't exist," on the song, "Post Mortem Bliss," and such a line doesn't actually convince us that there is no such thing as pain. It almost impresses on us an idea that this pain is so evident that it's gone numb. It doesn't exist because there's no feeling in it any longer. Pain was felt so hard, and for such an extended period of time that it became an empty feeling.
Lillian, Yves and Bosh Berlin make music that addresses the feeling of dread and horror that one would have while witnessing the utter annihilation of the world and its general structure. It might be that there would still be something after such an event, but there's no telling.
It's about trying to sleep in a bright room, trying to see in a black one.
It's about wondering where the next meal's going to come from and still being picky about that that meal might entail.
It's about war and freedom.
It's about the sense that there might not be anything prettier than someone who's been forgiven, who is wiping away tears and growing a truly meaningful smile.
It's about haunted beaches and weighted souls.
It's about having no money and the devil rising up.
It's about the marriage of good and the opposite and how it's always rocky, at best.