Melancholy rarely loosens its grip, and when it does, barely noticeable bits of humor distort the (absence of) space in a time-free continuum. Stunned by its own haze, verity is laid in a soft cradle of hypnagogia, then tucked in a blanket of confusion. What is this nonsense hanging on a thinned thread from a cloud?
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| Apostles of Desire |
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| Art Is an Incurable Disease |
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| Sleepless Inside Nothingness |
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| Smoother Than the Night |
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| The Morning After the End |
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| Sheer Elegance in Futility |
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| A Downness Delight |
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| A Race Already Lost |
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| A Little Bit to Your Left |
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| Help Me Disappear |
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