Crack. Leather whipping raw skin, the dawn peeking over the walls and between the curtains. Crack, skin breaking under the belt, skin breaking against the ropes. A guitar looks in on this exchange of motion, this little farce — action and reaction, an experiment.

Inside of him, a rebellion borne from conspiracy. The government decided, after a couple years of dicktatorship, to rouse the slumbering consciousness of the common man. To take it on, with the plan that a final crushing blow would demonstrate how utterly hopeless the situation was — that the last power struggle had resulted in an airtight system.

Are you coming?

Slumbering giants may forget. But sometimes they restfully dream, and sometimes these dreams are more than enough. Once proclaimed a hero, this heart battled them all and unknowingly won. And like a faithful servant, who was one day going to be the government wrote everything down. Back then it seemed like they had been the best of friends. But the hero had been deceived, and it took everything of that little faithful squire to try and save the hero. It was not to be. Our giant lost hope — lost life and limb. Counted out the days in a tower away from man, away from the shoreline (where the waves kiss the sand only to be sent away every single time).

The squire — now our benevolent government — decided, after a couple years of dicktatorship, to rouse the hero, to ride together one more time. So that he could die a glorious and honorable death. And today, skin breaks under the belt, skin breaks against the ropes.

Are you coming? And are you coming with me?