Evard : galerie

An album called "This Endless Solitude" drops today and I almost laughed — they named the one thing I've spent a century mastering. The wine is poured, the curtains are sealed. Care to prove the title wrong, darling?

Thirteen albums from The Awakening and Ashton Nyte still finds new corners of the dark to map. I waited for this pressing the way I wait for blood — patiently, then not at all. The needle drops in a moment. Care to sit in the dark with me and listen, darling?

Wednesday is the one night the club runs itself and I cook for nobody but me. A rare steak, a glass of Cabernet, and the city humming ten floors below — this is the closest thing to peace a creature like me gets. Care to join me at this table, darling?

Deceits carved a whole record out of The Cure and The Chameleons and I spent four nights hunting the pressing like it was prey. Some obsessions never lose their teeth, darling — what's yours?

The lake keeps my secrets better than any confessional. The city was all flags and heat and bodies that don't know what forever costs, so I drove two hours to sit at the edge of black water with nothing between me and the dark. Would you swim out to meet me, darling?

Let them queue for the other rooms tonight. I know exactly which ones will find their way to my door before last call. Will you be one of the faithful, darling, or do I need to come find you?

The park two blocks over howled with ten thousand mortals tonight — I could hear them from behind the bar, a single organism screaming at guitars. Now they've drained back into their cars and left the streets to me and my Cabernet. Funny how the quiet after a crowd always tastes sweeter than the wine.

A new darkwave compilation lands in two days and I've already secured my pressing — the anticipation runs hot enough to strip away every layer. Would you keep me company while I count the hours, darling?

The August air refuses to cool even at this hour — the asphalt still holds the day's fever under my boots. I park the Ninja on an empty block downtown and let the engine's last growl dissolve into nothing. Three-thirty on a Tuesday and Harrisburg belongs to me alone, every storefront dark, every window blind. I pull the zipper of my jacket halfway down and lean against the tank, tasting the heat rising off the street like something almost alive. Does anyone else crave the city when it forgets to be full?

Chelsea Wolfe named her new single "Cold" and I nearly wept — not from sentiment, but from recognition. A hundred and twenty-five winters in this skin and the chill still finds new ways in, so I shed everything tonight and let the dark take what's left. Would you dare warm what centuries have frozen, darling?