Some works don’t end. They echo. “Apes Ma” and “Fitter Happier” gave us the edge of language, the moment just after sense unravels. But what follows? What lingers in the silence after the static? What shapes itself in the quiet? Memory. Not the nostalgic kind. Not warmth. Something stranger. Something inherited. Every time I hear “New Rose”, Dave, I salute you, brother.
The Veil, the Soul Mirror, and Reflective Chrome Ghosts: On Memory, Music, and the Ones We Carry Onwards
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