DEAR§

Don’t breathe in this intimate dialect or you will find there’s nothing here. No romance, no horror, no structure, this is kindred throughline at hostile expense. Lost in language, this defiant species recumbent in the folds of fork tongues, welcome to the club where no one is alone, the ethered immanence of futility, Gnostic prophets in the custody of a freshly confirmed Roman Catholic. The mythos deepens in real time. I was an artist before I came to God, and now one hand sort of washes the other. Take the step to never ever be let down again. In karmic excellence, under the sign of Expat, here to be beasts, your October surprise, when you send meaningful fulfillment we’ll be blunting and shooting you with bottlenecks, concussed shards and shrapnel anthems, compressed and compacted skronk decibels, sort of skeined and efferent Yugoslavian Coldwave arabesques. DEAR§ is the concept of the tensions in praxis, existing as an uninhibited tome of endearment. It is an act of violence against the constant need to reassure with a ‘real’ behind the text. It asks what you’re protecting yourself from with a conjured supposed relationship, refusing those base tendencies.

Only 150 hand-numbered copies, never to be reprinted, DEAR§ collects the letters of two unnamed correspondents. Contrasting and contradictory call-and-responses are slipped into dead-drop mailboxes and left on abandoned email servers. A new war in heaven is declared, fought, lost and won between salutations and sign-offs. Without anything but voice (which is, of course, all of it), with beautifully scrawled collage, an epistolary chronicle in absolute time signatures, between the lines droning and writhing towards a toward that annihilates rather than concludes. Purgatorial hymns eschewing salvation, sublimely transcendent against birthright.