Get all 224 Next Year's Snow releases available on Bandcamp.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Leaving Xilent Trodden, Melismata umbris, bedframe, Wassermann (Soundtrack & Audio from the Film), You are Peace! You are Love!, ᏠՀ๔ย๒ᏗᏝᘔงʊӄ, ← seulement XPORT Mach 11, Nineteenth day, third month, thirty-seven minutes, thirty-four seconds, and 216 more.
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[psytrance]
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The craft of a god is the weather, climate, and conditions of a mortal
Then nature is a culinary art for those-greater-than-we-understand
Prosodaically experiencing Torschluss because our language is not theirs
Flowing in ways the gods do not understand, flowing against the gods' wills
Intersecting ripples from each pantheon step interfere in circularities
In the process they pattern out new humankind-specific moralities
And the gods take it all for granted, they don't bother and are distinguished
Witnesses they are, but attention to detail they will never, ever have
Our only shibboleth as mortals is the stupidest most ambiguous thing about us
The fact that humanity can summon forms unique to itself and really truly think
At least in the way we believe is true thought, anything else we just wont' get
Anyway, that being said, we create definitions of nature, Epicurean girls
Schadenfreude for the deities we worship is not uncommon anyway
They have their own subjectivities, their own endings, their own beginnings
And that will never not be fine, for we are divided by this river
You see, Hoc flumen quod caelum vocamus omnes dividit, it always has
As a set of clouds I open up my subject, my verb, and my object
To analyses and my digits to binary counting, the difficulties of
Holding up and down the numbers, all the way up to one thousand twenty four
An entire day taken towards this purpose, I rest on Sundays
Just as the Abrahamic deity apparently wished, at least for the Christians
I vageuly emblazen sentences into computer screens baselessly until
The sounds feel effective and speak of their own accord, into my patterns
They go, softly, with no blood drawn in the process
I write false histories of imperial dynasties, you write shitty fanfiction
I am attempting to bring myself into divinity's reach, you wish for its touch
There is an intrinsic difference present, never to be overcome
Packing my bags, introduction and conclusion alike, I have fragments of hope
I hope one day to piece everything together and see myself in the mirror
All waits for all to pass, but I will not wait such a thing for myself
I am always some, some is always all, all is never the same for me
Reflect various parts of the things we draw out, constrain, and unlimit
Everything is, was, will be, et cetera, for existence is whatever
And I am eternally greatful for such a stunningly beautiful sense of mootness
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technically a cover of Running Up That Hill but not really-
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messages
16:52
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Years increase. Owing to the lily-unfolding increasing multidimensionality of words, we will hold our cultural festivals in honor of semantic drift, for in ancient times a word could be one thing, correspond to a unity under God, enter a singularity in and of itself, but now we can only remember such a time. There is no re-execution, no re-reinterpretation.
It is unknowable who submitted the first of the records, but they provide us no solace knowing that no event therein can be replicated. Voices speak in no text from stereo microphones without windscreens, blowing their sweet messages into oblivion and our ears, our years lost and our records failing to begin as often as they fail to end. If it is not recorded right away, then what of it?
The history lessons of yesteryear are the military victories of tomorrow. Are you listening closely when lectured about the Haymarket Affair or the fracturing of America's pioneering labor unions? Did you read your textbook? No, you did not. I am the magical force of unknowing, the coveted concept of forget once preached by the Church of Undo and its puritanical ministers, but distilled down into a form only some will care about. We are no longer universalizing; we are specific to death, for we've failed to try to learn everything in life. I begin and end in the same place, at the same position, thus having a displacement of zero. The unwillingness of passersby on streets multiple miles away to turn their ears toward my sad, sad street song as I busk in an alleyway for the pigeons is only natural, for they do not perceive me. Someday, one of the pigeons is just as likely to bring me payment, a coin or two, as any of them; I will never be able to fund my trip to Berlin, and that's okay. I will rent for the rest of my life, and I guess that's fine. I do not need anything more than a few people to speak to about my beliefs. Everything means nothing, and I am beyond belief.
Seaweed covers me as I wash up onto beaches and kill countless selves in the process. I am a beached whale crushing a little girl with its oncoming weight, just as I present the monarch with book after book I've written, only to be told my flatteries are too, emphasizing too, outlandish, that I am to be executed tomorrow at dawn, though it's always a joke. I am no jester, but I'm rather close. The world bends to fuckall I've done, and there is no influence, for no one reads these books. Should that bring me comfort, or should it comfort you? I couldn't tell you for the life of me, for my imperial court is not open for inquiry, and this is the only direct communication I have left, and within it I can do little more than sum things up in hopes that you will, within a few decades, eventually reinterpret me as some kind of messiah rather than relegating me to various places of uncertainty as has been done for the past half-century, or has it been a century...regardless, this is what's left. This is all I wish to remain. Nothing about this has held any importance until now. The exact moment is what guides me. I am free, yet chained.
Blood dripping down from a forehead marked with shameful scar lettering designed for infamy-machinations and new strides in cruelty, I come upstairs and imagine myself on the roof, looking down at the ground. There is no will to jump, worry not, only a will to connect with the sky. I wish I were a mockingbird from time to time, the liver and the breather of music, able to embrace any avian call without a struggle, or maybe it would be best if I remained a human - whom you must assume is divine - with wings. I whistle idly through slightly chipped teeth into an everlasting, anachronistic tape machine displaced from space and time, sparingly pausing between phrases with layering further instrumentation in mind, but I was robbed of my guitar and my horn the other day and could not retrieve them, being disallowed to leave the campus of the monarch under any circumstances on a false pretense of my valuability as a woman of the court. No one has ever made a song, and I don't think anyone ever will.
Tinnitus. A girl records a song she knows no one will ever hear. Light, nevertheless, enters the window.
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Next Year's Snow
Svalbard Seed Vault field recordings label. Dabbling in large-scale interactive hydrophone installations and sixth wave post-
Pigfuck on the side.
Art collective est. March 1st 2017
Founded by:
Octa Möbius Sheffner
Valyri Sheffner Harris
Spencer Booth
Previous:
&TIME
earlyprey
(etc.)
Current:
7FORM
Hatemail and/or demos:
snow@ecarlate.company
... more
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