There's blood on your hands. Sometimes, out of the corner of your eye, you can see the ripe apple-red of it blooming on your fingertips and you have to remind yourself: you've already washed it away. But deep inside you're still trying to scrub the sticky-dark feeling out. Tragedy-tinged tunes strum on your heartstrings, static reminding you of the space between each pulsing blood-beat.

8 tracks