monologue written by peter lacarenza for that year your guise was the little patch of woods that stood behind your house a spared phalanx of spindly elms on the edge of what once was the train made its way through it every hour and that streak of tired green light barrels by clacking through the fecund underbrush you d listen to it as you tried to fall asleep it was that tamed country aesthetic in which you sough solace it came in the morning on the sprinklings of dew and faded with each sentimental sunset which were like marmalade i ve tried to understand it myself but it is almost too much it is a river of muffled feelings and anxiety a deep drink of silences a nostalgia for the things that used to bring you joy yet you crumble to its neuroses with your paranoid sense of necessary reassurance the expanses of serpentine bliss and snaking paths that grow cindery in the late summer looped themselves around you binding you to this most typical of place names i have watched you wither and succumb to this strange place with a sense of disillusionment you sought your perfection so you constructed your glass jar all vacuumed up with your sanity you perched it on the ridge top where you could watch the manic depression unfold teeming under the emerald grass 
['chillwave', 'substep']