The fog is dense, mostly along the tips of the grass which tickle your ankles. Socks do no justice and shoes will only encourage the fury, travel insists on the bare. Echoes sprout like pine and meet death like cones, questionable but please don’t ask. Woods persist in spite, in loyalty, in morality. Rising from the density, making clarity of the echoes. Through headphone, through megaphone, through market, and through hotel. Death Rattle. Twisted Tongue. Military Madness. In the distance you have room.
Woods – Hunover
Woods – Night Creature
FMLY loves Woods.
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