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from The Dreaming Season by Joshua and The Ruins

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    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Techno Eyes EP, The Dreaming Season, Trespassion EP, The Collect For Saint Andrew's Day, From Paris With Shame, Stones For A Glass House [Single], Monolith, When This Was Paradise [Demo], and 6 more. , and , .

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lyrics

I stepped off of the plane into a state to which I would swear I’d never return. I was greeted by a man with a ponytail who told me of its downtrodden people and how they and their crops got burned. You know, I don’t remember his name. I don’t remember a thing he said. Remember his name. I only remember the foliage out the window looking subtly different than anything I’d seen in Missouri. I exited the shuttle and scuttled off to the lodge in an unnecessary, sophomoric hurry, and the cicada killers chased me away from my cabin door for four consecutive tries, and on the fifth I looked up and accidentally into your eyes. I returned with my laptop to the main foyer and quickly realized I was the youngest of all the new recruits, sampling the smell of 1980s perfume and the faded greys in the faded grey of broken-in suits. And the session topics were all myopic, and I felt foolish and lonely as I lamented the blunder of coming here all this way just to get an Abraham Lincoln impersonator’s cell phone number. I don’t remember his name. I don’t remember a thing he said. I only remember he was adamant about Illinois unjustly stealing all of the fame. About the tourism commission and their war of attrition over the rights to his historic fictitious name, and as I picked away at some unfortunate steak/snake, I divined helplessly for the wellspring of a common ground, making my uncertain rounds around the room when suddenly you turned around. We spoke for a while and your demeanor and smile made me feel ill-equipped and totally pathetic. The way the light hit your unusual green eyes and sweater told me they were wise, and it was synthetic. And in an instant I found my intrigue requited in a walk with your colleagues on which I was invited, and when they decided to turn back on the golf course mid quest and we pressed on, I felt the pressure mounting in my chest. I don’t remember their names. I don’t remember a thing they said. I just remember the city lights glowing from the top of a cliff overlooking that sad town. Sharing perspectives and the quiet excitement and the very real fear on the summit of plummeting down. And a moment of silence tested the spacetime of the three feet and thirty years between us. You know, we knew we could have done anything, and no one would have seen us. But we just stared into the starry night, silhouettes traced in light, marveling at the stones passing from one to the next like immortal Wood Elves right at home and all too aware of their diminishing fantasy. And we walked right back down that hill knowing full well we never would and never will in any other sense than that magical but long-past present tense that few have glimpsed and many cannot see. And the next day I attended a presentation on differences in volunteerism across generations. And now years later I wonder how our years influenced us in that situation, but I contend that age could have been transcended by those sensations, but…I don’t remember your name, don’t remember a thing you said. I just remember the business card you gave me as a souvenir of one of the strangest nights of all my days, on a mid-spring night’s awakening painstakingly trying to count just one of the hypothetical ways. But there is no comparison. The disparity in tallying the rings of our trees that we left in the forest on that sheer ledge will be the divide that separates the gentle breeze that pulls at their leaves from the roaring wind just over the edge. And they’ll be cut down when they’re older and chipped and shipped off to smolder in a pile packed into pulp and pressed into the pages about differing ages in an article by Ken Culp. And when all he wrote has finally been printed and pushed into a tote, the hints of that breeze will leap from my throat like the last gasp of the God Almighty. Yo know, come to think of it, I think his name was Jessie. I think his name was Richard. I think their names were Karen. I think your name was

credits

from The Dreaming Season, released April 23, 2019

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Joshua and The Ruins Kansas City, Missouri

Joshua and The Ruins is the singer-songwriter music of Josh King. This website is the home of ALL his music--indie folk, progressive metal, video game music, experimental noise, classical Gregorian chant. Roll the dice and click on your new favorite song. :) ... more

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