This is the debut EP from a two-piece outfit from Northampton, UK. When Burn The Fleet disbanded a couple of years ago, I made sure to keep track of vocalist Andrew Convey’s future work. This iteration sees Convey splitting guitar and vocal duties with the talented Megan Amirghiasvand. Together, they are Little Faith.
“Old Auntie told us that they were devil nets. You put them around the bed, catch the devil before he get too close. […] She was a wonderful woman. Loved her some Jesus, but had a bit of that Santeria in her, you know? I always just thought it was something for children to do, keep ‘em busy, tell them stories while they’re tying sticks together.”
Rust Cohle, True detective S01E1 “The long bright dark’
“In a diary entry (July 21st, 1913) Franz Kafka writes: “I cannot sleep. Only dreams, no sleep.” (Diaries 291). The dreamer, however, is other than the “I” who “can not sleep” for “I sleep along myself”. This ‘other’ continually accompanies ‘one’, thinking in a manner quite different from that of the day, though it does not cease during the day. It is the very fact that this inner turbulence does not cease, is incessant, that causes Kafka to write; “I just dream, which is more exhausting than the wakefulness.” Dream, as Blanchot has described it, is indeed an endless restless series of resemblances and associations (Space 268).”
From: Philosophy and Kafka, Brendan Moran & Carlo Salzani, 2013
Vermillion sheriff requested assistance with a 419, cane fields outside of Erath. I’d been on the job about 3 months till then. Two previous cases were open and shut. It was January 3, 1995, my daughter’s birthday. I remember.
‘Over all the dismal landscape a canopy of low, lead-colored clouds hung like a visible curse. In all this there were a menace and a portent - a hint of evil, an intimation of doom. Bird, beast, or insect there was none. The wind sighed in the bare branches of the dead trees and the gray grass bent to whisper its dread secret to the earth; but no other sound nor motion broke the awful repose of that dismal place.
I observed in the herbage a number of weather-worn stones, evidently shaped with tools. They were broken, covered with moss and half sunken in the earth. Some lay prostrate, some leaned at various angles, none was vertical. They were obviously headstones of graves, though the graves themselves no longer existed as either mounds or depressions; the years had leveled all. Scattered here and there, more massive blocks showed where some pompous tomb or ambitious monument had once flung its feeble defiance at oblivion. So old seemed these relics, these vestiges of vanity and memorials of affection and piety, so battered and worn and stained - so neglected, deserted, forgotten the place, that I could not help thinking myself the discoverer of the burial-ground of a prehistoric race of men whose very name was long extinct.’
I think human consciousness is a tragic misstep in evolution. We became too self-aware. Nature created an aspect of nature separate from itself. We are creatures that should not exist by natural law. We are things that labor under the illusion of having a self; a secretion of sensory, experience and feeling, programmed with total assurance that we are each somebody, when in fact everybody’s nobody.