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Recorded June 13th, 2014 at Dead Air Studios.
Mixed and mastered by Will Killingsworth.
Additional recording and mixing by Jeremiah Tessier.
Cover photo by Jeremiah Tessier.

Tapes available soon from Don't Live Like Me Records.
Huge thanks to Will Killingsworth, Kehan Larivee, and Jordan Barsamian.


released October 7, 2014

Jeremiah Tessier - Guitar, vocals, noise, piano
Nolan Ripa - Drums, vocals, noise, tape loops



all rights reserved


there is nothing wrong with your television set Boston, Massachusetts

Boston via Providence.
Drink Moxie.

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Track Name: Shepherd
you just couldn't wait,
so you swallowed your tongues
and made no attempt to look away,
until all the teeth were dust.
no amount of dental records will make for better journalism.
but at what point did it become obvious,
at what point did it become a good idea, or a job well done?
i bet no one fucking blinked.
i bet the children stared.
Track Name: Cast Towards the Mire and the Noose
limp wristed, leaden hands,
cover our collective face.
the sun won't reach our throats
as we swallow all the spit we can muster from the wound.
last breath, collapsed lungs.
for first the water will dry and sink into the dirt,
and soon we will follow on pallid, bloodied knees,
suffering less with every inch dragged closer to the bones.
the air has never been this thick with grief.
there will be no graves, we're buried in it.
Track Name: Tossing/Turning
keep the curtains drawn so that the man with the light in his face may watch your bruised appendages,
folded neatly by the bedside.
a condition dependent on the pulse of a circuit box,
another man tends to the wires like a flock.
autonomous herd. tossing the fetid soil of our youth at the window, barred shut.
gazing inward, undefined; there is no sun.
tossing the fetid soil of our youth at the window, barred shut.
the sky is calling.
Track Name: Cripple
not worth bloodying my knuckles,
or the wasted paper on letters
written by dying candle light.
as much, if not more crutches than the cripple wing in the ward.
...and your wings were clipped too early
by your own regressive hands.
there you were, feet on a chair,
neck in noose, complacent and content.
face in hands, and hands above slit wrists.
you killed yourself of me.
you rid yourself of me.
good riddance.