Happy birthday to Emmylou Harris, born on this day in 1947 in Birmingham, Alabama. Here she is performing “My Blue Ridge Mountain Boy” in 1977.

This place is in its death throes, eh?

Is it just me or is life but a walking shadow these days?

we contented, fatted, suckling — redolent with the stink of mortality but happy to forget it. Vain idols begetting idylls, whose ultimate sum changes naught. Circling, circling and pretending all the while

Wasn’t sure about #TheGallowsPole at first, but the burial scenes + previously unknown-to-me The Fold by Wickerbird were perfect. Whole thing is beautifully scored by Swedish band, Goat. Just watched the start of #2 and it’s got a Monty Python and the Holy Grail vibe so I’m in 🫎

For my lovely British friends, I was extremely flattered to have my music featured on the BBC’s new drama #TheGallowsPole — truly a beautiful scene and show. Thanks ShaneMeadows.com for the chance to be a small part of the project. bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episod…

We drown in time unreeling — the voidless immensity behind us and there, the ever-ebbing before us. The dwindling moment. The slow trickling, the draining of wrists, the eyes, the silly mortal tongue. Build a meaning, an idol, a god and watch it molder

A tour de force soundtrack #gallowspole @jenniferballads Goat Wickerbird examinerlive.co.uk/news/tv/what-t…

Maps of other seasons, older than the sea.

Both our bodies formed from the dust that haunts you Riverborn.

We wandered down an archipelago, the sundered sound, these martyred manifold; features I had lost

Redolent with the ichor of bloodied things, our many tithes to bloodless gods

Every fascist identifies the pincers, fangs, and stingers and then refuses to acknowledge the animal they're attached to.

It is a great wonder that any conscious mind, fully comprehending its own mortality, should not go at least slightly insane. Maybe we’re all just quietly losing it, finding little baubles in the sand to fixate on—shiny things to center our universes around.

Seattle feels like someone deleted half of Toronto and instead made it freakishly pretty

We are the mariners of a martyred sea, slow-plying the rank waters of long-dead oceans. Vaguely knowing what was and vaguely lamenting what won’t be again.

Our mythologies, our endless mythologizing, seek not to interpret inherent meaning in the universe. They seek to provide it. Bestow a stain of humanity upon an ever-molting void.

I fear the fading fires. The gasping embers. The slow, waning glow roused at every labored breath, every exhalation spent to stoke a futile flame

the catechism for we, brood of cataclysm: what remains? what now? Nothing. Imbibe. Drink deep of what you can, for the lot is seeping out

lost in the hinterland of idleness. The aegis of an uncaring age, fast at my back