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I will show you fear in a handful of dust


"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water."

"The Wasteland" - TS Eliot.

A mix for a the desert, for the scorching heat and the dry earth, for the realm of desolation.

9 tracks
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