Residual

by Second Storey Teller

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lyrics

When the wind comes up and the rain settles in and the lights are gone and the candles are dim and the music is only an ambient crust, and the lids are heavy but still there’s an edge to it all, that’s when you’ll realise there’s no horror in this world that can add anything to the real terror. Imagination is a wonderful thing, and its escapist therapy will help us all. But how do we get there when the actual world grows so grim, with tumours blossoming like fresh new truths every day, when a storm or power cut couldn’t begin to set up anything at all. Because the horror is in the parliaments and boardrooms and the corridors of all power, it’s in the caked expressions on the wax-eyed paintings and their dusty frames, fraught with opulence and mired in unacknowledged guilt; there’s no hope for false scares as a jolt to the senses – not when the real ones are forever threatening and grow quietly amid our collective silence. The cold death of value has killed all of the ugliness anyone might want to cultivate, but none of the rawness that sneaks through the gaps of hurt as dead-eyed monsters dress smarter and worker harder and haunt agile velocities with new pathologies of loneliness.