When neither sight nor sound can indicate how you won’t rebound from the next swell, you now know the full scope and feel of the undertow’s reel. Onslaught nautical, inner compass is spun, in deeper than you thought, it cannot be undone. Spatial intoxication abounds, as you spin perpetually ’round. Looking for purchase, you slip on thick riffs, never finding the sea’s floor. Seconds turn into minutes, while you yearn for the shore. Farther and farther from the harbor, each beat blast therein, dashes all hopes of taking in two parts oxygen. The deluge is too huge, and so you acquiesce.
Out on now at Season of Mist; The Approaching Roar drags you down…way down: