White phosphorus burning through the night
Skeleton crew on a slaver, hug the equator tight
Drone fly like metal kite
Hellfire out the sky, open your book to Revelations
Anyone hatin’, this your chance to get right
White phosphorus burning through the night
Skeleton crew on a slaver, hug the equator tight
Drone fly like metal kite
Hellfire out the sky, open your book to Revelations
Anyone hatin’, this your chance to get right
“I want the thing itself. The reality of a work of art is no symbol, no imitation either of outer or inner Nature. It doesn’t imitate the pulse of the heart. It is its own self; it has its own pulse. Otherwise everything would be an imitation in relation to something. Perhaps that’s so: This something is God. Only I don’t like the word imitation.”
Anton Webern