A song has a strange life.

You sing these words into the soil, you let them grow, and one day, when the sky is at its darkest hue, or the earth it’s most barren state, they arrive unannounced.

The Cinematic was almost a forgotten seed. These sprawling songs, pushed into some dark recess - tooled with a little, doubted, shoved into the ground.

But as the writer said, the poetry of the earth is never dead. It always comes back to haunt you; the faint strains of that song always comes home to roost, as subtle as a fresh wave of triumph, heartbreak, old etcetera’s.

These are songs thrown out into open. Expansive, anthemic things, tossed to the wind. Tomorrow we die, today we sing. With strings, drums and voice, we write our victory tomes and our last requests.

We’ll keep on living till our song is sung
Another anthem of the youth in love