Production:
Jack Shirley – production, engineering, mixing, mastering
Deafheaven – production
Artwork:
R. Sawyer – cover art, insert art
N. Steinhardt – package design
1. Violet
Why? What have they done?
Who has the culprit crossed and forced in another year?
Why have some gone, but we are still here?
Sitting in a circle of clouds. Enforced.
Upon my head. Above my eager eyes.
Misplaced. My mind abandoned. Seized to substance.
Abused in months of exc
ess. Heat flashes of memory.
Breathing in good health. To stop the nightly excess.
Pounding on the walls of the temple. Beside the cross.
Bury me in the bay. Tempt me with throated swords no longer.
Oh, I am weary. I am tired. Tired of leaping.
Collections of caskets. I am lurking death.
AN ANIMAL. A curse to myself.
Harms way for those I cherish.
Done. Forced in light.
Versed, as the child, on and on.
I am home.
I am home.
2. Language Games
We're still laughing over lore.
Still talking about a stream of smoke in the head of a shelter tank, swimmingly bored.
Swimming in monotony. Swimming in ponds where our knees scrape the bottom.
And still, we swallow the surface.
We brought our boredom to the lights.
Spoiled the city. Blind to the ocean. Deaf to the heavens.
Carving a shut in symphony with memory's masturbation.
I've talked it out.
Doomed to be a spoiled child.
A pupil in the eyes of forever.
I knit the fire. I stared into the mirror.
A prisoner to the past. A ghost to the present.
Put down your glass. Don't raise a toast to your slaving bloodline now.
Come to life. Walk the roads to Judah, tonight.
3. Unrequited
Bowing to a monolith of grief. Obsessing over discord.
Daydreaming of nights that led my staggering steps to nowhere.
Bathing in the Summer night’s cold and in the black of night, I feel so old.
I feel so worn, quartered, and torn. Hung from the post where my brothers once sung.
Cut from the tie where my sanity binds. Stuck in Winter’s Hell, with just you in mind.
Waiting in the cold, where we hide behind.
I can’t move on, because I can’t shed the weight of myself.
There is no such thing as the past, present, or future.
There just is, and it never goes away.
I thought about you for the rest of the day.
Catching my head turning to find you again.
I hated myself for it.
4. Tunnel Of Trees
Barren, first, the golden nest.
The budding breast.
Bloated with mystical, imaginary potential that pause in glory with thoughts of ghost, fled.
The ebbing, unknown wound. The disfigured prison of resonant debauchery; seeping through cracks, corroded with mold.
Blissfully ignorant insanity.
Misled prayers for sunshine in the hopeless, godless cathedral of rapid time.
Like a tsunami of death, a roaring river of blood, drowning the life out of all that was good.
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Breathing in good health. To stop the nightly excess.
Pounding on the walls of the temple. Beside the cross.
Bury me in the bay. Tempt me with throated swords no longer.
Oh, I am weary. I am tired. Tired of leaping.
Collections of caskets. I am lurking death.
AN ANIMAL. A curse to myself.
Harms way for those I cherish.
Done. Forced in light.
Versed, as the child, on and on.
I am home.
I am home.
2. Language Games
We're still laughing over lore.
Still talking about a stream of smoke in the head of a shelter tank, swimmingly bored.
Swimming in monotony. Swimming in ponds where our knees scrape the bottom.
And still, we swallow the surface.
We brought our boredom to the lights.
Spoiled the city. Blind to the ocean. Deaf to the heavens.
Carving a shut in symphony with memory's masturbation.
I've talked it out.
Doomed to be a spoiled child.
A pupil in the eyes of forever.
I knit the fire. I stared into the mirror.
A prisoner to the past. A ghost to the present.
Put down your glass. Don't raise a toast to your slaving bloodline now.
Come to life. Walk the roads to Judah, tonight.
3. Unrequited
Bowing to a monolith of grief. Obsessing over discord.
Daydreaming of nights that led my staggering steps to nowhere.
Bathing in the Summer night’s cold and in the black of night, I feel so old.
I feel so worn, quartered, and torn. Hung from the post where my brothers once sung.
Cut from the tie where my sanity binds. Stuck in Winter’s Hell, with just you in mind.
Waiting in the cold, where we hide behind.
I can’t move on, because I can’t shed the weight of myself.
There is no such thing as the past, present, or future.
There just is, and it never goes away.
I thought about you for the rest of the day.
Catching my head turning to find you again.
I hated myself for it.
4. Tunnel Of Trees
Barren, first, the golden nest.
The budding breast.
Bloated with mystical, imaginary potential that pause in glory with thoughts of ghost, fled.
The ebbing, unknown wound. The disfigured prison of resonant debauchery; seeping through cracks, corroded with mold.
Blissfully ignorant insanity.
Misled prayers for sunshine in the hopeless, godless cathedral of rapid time.
Like a tsunami of death, a roaring river of blood, drowning the life out of all that was good.