The horror that is reality begins at 1:25.
*we'll see if this Gothick-style Kynge's Brew is worthie of thy Crown.
Let us sit poor Mr. Rensenbrink & what he crystallizes aside for a moment. The mighty Agalloch was indeed, flesh vibrating on bone, spinal shivers of darkthroning in the Northwestern woods, earthquake heart, & epic kudos to the teenageristic dude who didn't check his iPhone LOL LEET NOOB OMG TXT once, air
Now, what is life but a crucible of hitting the post**, perpetually reborn into one more inevitably mishit strike such as Don Anderson dealing with broken strings not once, not twice, but thrice, thus we cling to this illusory salve, musical (& sporting) over the political if you're not megalomaniacal. Aside: what then of Mario Kempes & Argentina, the ever-elusive victory? The other, necessary half lest toes curl & eyelids flake off in a gibbering madness that can do nothing but wait, grinning, for the red giant to stride over the earth.
**for those not in the know, if the Dutch had scored in the 90th minute, the odds are decent that they would have won the World Cup, their reward fractured skulls oozing bloody pulp via agents of the military junta wielding that shiny trophy. Or not, but it makes for compelling storytelling.
Mr. Ligotti's right, but I'm going to enjoy the deception as long as I can.