βI felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading β treading β till it seemed That Sense was breaking through β And when they all were seated, A Service, like a Drum β Kept beating β beating β till I thought My Mind was going numb β And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With those same Boots of Lead, again, Then Space β began to toll, As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race Wrecked, solitary, here β And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down β And hit a World, at every plunge, And Finished knowing β then ββ Emily Dickinson
When sound becomes a scar. Since 2008: mapping landscapes of absence. Antarctic isolation, personal grief, quiet forests. Soundscapes that exist in grey territories between collapse and reconstruction. Not dark, not light, just grey⦠French Ambient / Dark Ambient / Drone
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