Unto Dust

by Intentions

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1.
02:13
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02:30
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01:59
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02:05
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Recorded February 2010. Produced and mixed by Nathan Ashmore.

INTENTIONS: Daniel Madden, Jonathan Papert, Simon Unwin.

Photographs by Laura Hunt. Design by Ben Corio.

www.tohellwithintentions.wordpress.com

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released September 1, 2010

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Track Name: Unto Dust
Wake in dust! Today our machines will rust – a desert shroud over this mistrusting crowd. Dead languages whisper to us: they speak of heat and of dust. But we murdered the words binding us to the world and now we don’t know who to trust. Unto dust we shall return with all the warning signs we spurned. Oh, unto dust we shall return. Oh, unto dust we shall return. Skyscrapers loom out of the crimson gloom. The void within is piled up on our windowsills. Oh, unto dust we shall return.
Track Name: Ridley Scott
A blank billboard invades my window, cut into strips by the blinds. A negative shadow, white and shining; sinister, trapping out innocent starlight. Perched like vultures, those transmitters, sliding down the wires. On a clifftop of steel and mortar – towering, toppling, sinking, seeping inside.
Track Name: Epidemic
In every ring-a-ring of rosies, rose-coloured glasses are bent out of shape with every moment that passes. In every pocketful of posies, capsules and pills. A black dog’s weight is the shape of our ills. This epidemic spreads.
Track Name: Abdicate
I could sink into this! Pour me into your mould, regardless of whether I was hot or cold. I abdicate! Program me. I abdicate! Direct me! Download me a dependent, dumbstruck, drifting, damning dream. Pulverise the risks of my will with the aching bliss of new machines. Oh yes, I could sink into this. I abdicate! Program me. I abdicate! Direct me!
Track Name: Screaming Match
It used to be that what we had to say was elegant. Now we jettison the ballast of the words we don’t find relevant. Our songs are just a screaming match, exorcised of meaning. We’re extracting all we can from phrases that were barely worth repeating. We’re barely worth repeating. We’re rising, we’re weightless, we can’t be pinned down. And all of these absent words drop to the ground.
Track Name: Suburban Kids
This room’s full of suburban kids – like angels on the heads of pins. We suck this world dry with scarring wrists. I understand ignoring it means bliss, but that’s different from ignorance – you have to work at it. You have to work at it. This hand-wringing’s got to end somewhere: let’s end it now, let’s end it here. This hand-wringing’s got to end somewhere: let’s end it here.