“Kissing the forehead of a sack of water,” Slough groans.
The shape pressed against your cheek smells the way you’d imagine a doomsday prepper’s storage unit would. Like the inside of an Old Navy, with a hint of Beefaroni. It feels like a living thing, this weight hanging from your shoulder—this weight you’re too afraid to turn your head to see. Just keep on trudging.
Slough lives up to its name, whether defined as a swamp or shed skin: the 90-second song “Wolf Boy” feels like something cast aside, or a responsibility dropped in your inbox. I fear it’s in pain when I listen to it. A dismembered chord progression played on acoustic guitar scrapes against digital compression, longing to be returned to the tune it was clipped from. The drums protrude from under its skin, sluggish and trappy. Slough croaks like he’s covering Dinosaur Jr half-heartedly. When he says “My bedframe is gnawing at the floorboards,” it’s as if he’s dreamed it happening, divining this vision via sleeptalk.
“You can put yourself to bed,” whispers the shape.
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