Let it snow, times three, finally.
After absorbing this interview with Rob Miller of the reformed Amebix, I forwarded it to the Duchess who wondered, surprisingly sans snark (don't try & face punch, homie, I've got a Battle Ready Sword complete with Peptide Synthesis), if that is the dude equivalent of this post's title.
[ed.note: being culturally illiterate, I had to look the reference up]
Short answer: a small segment of us wouldn't be against it, & though able to pick Scotch ancestors out of a genealogy lineup, slim are the pickings of heading off to a sparsely-populated isle with naught on my back but a few lonely albums, books, & t-shirts to forge weapons to a single malt tune midst the primitive wild. Confession is good for the soul, or the stomack, or something; is that all there is has beat an insistent snare for awhile.
Writing remains, & always will, but the abattoir is cramped & the cemetery is running out of space. Two-and-a quarter chords &
Save for touchstones, bien sûr, but those needn't be said as they're understood, pure movement to this hydra of stasis. I've got caffeine & a notebook with too few pages left. Can't make a torch out of that.