Bleak Theology A post-punk counterweight to joy.



Lower Manhattan skyline at dawn from Brooklyn Heights Promenade. I didn't take this.I live on the liminal sounds of the city, not even a mile from the harbor, where the boats mourn to one another. Their sorrowful cries echo about the sleeping streets. The water is cold. The air is cold. Taxis hiss down below me. Brooklyn is waking.

Rosy-fingered dawn runs her hands along my windows and beckons me out to see her. She is a mute goddess. She shares no secrets of the day’s events. She seems to abhor all disappointment.

These are moments before the war begins, before life’s tremolo rises in my gut and heart. On my wall, my clock ticks, moments of life tapping by. A few seconds less than I had before.

But I don’t care. The calm is a seducer, a lazy lover pulling me deeper into morning sheets. I am not yet thinking of the dizzying anxiety of freedom. I am merely breathing with the cars outside and moaning with the boats that are soon to be tossed among their icy waves.

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By Burke
Bleak Theology A post-punk counterweight to joy.


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