The bleak curtain falls. Above there is an acre of nothing. Below there is a limitless depth of something.
The wet never stops round here. It seems to be something permanent. Either is, or will or has. Never even committed to what it should be. Just hanging around.
Nothing sticks to these walls other than the damp and the cold and the feeling of being watched. Even those watching feel it, like a low grade fever or a mild current of a dream.
No one comes round here these days. Everyone starts out with good intentions and ends up in bad directions.
Bold plans for patronage never fulfilled. Broad areas for people never hinted at. All the trees died last summer. No one came to save them.
I press my hand to the hard wall beside me and it presses back to me. This was all someone's good idea. I would love to meet them.
A car moves past the window, distorted through the lenses of a thousand glassbound raindrops. All eyes turn to it.
No glasses will ever clink together anywhere near this place. It's a space for movement, not arrival. It's for transition, not settlement.
Mysteriously painted and carpeted areas where no one will stop or walk. Was there ever a plan here?
Our eyes linger past the movement of the car. The bleak curtain falls.
A playlist for the album can be found here.
Titles conceived, composed, arranged and performed by Mike Dickson
(c) 2026, Black Cat Music Factory