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"It was an exercise in vulnerability and trust. The music and structure were composed in real time, while the tape rolled on the very last day of tracking. My bandmates and I combined three different chord progressions and keys, each originating from different demos we had individually brought in. It was an experiment, one of the many examples of true collaboration that Every Acre is built upon. At its narrative core, the lyrics expose my struggle with depression through an unfiltered lens—calling it what it is, shaking hands with it, unapologetically honoring the power of its grip. It’s a mysterious and unpredictable companion that can make walking this world feel like slogging through unforgiving fields of mud. It’s exhausting. During this specific stretch of time, only my most primitive senses seemed accessible; the stillness of observation became the earnest way forward: train whistles told me it was time for supper; daybreak ushered a procession of morning light colors—blue, violet, pink, gold; the smell of burnt rubber and snarling engines signaled a Saturday night. Navigating the nuances of pandemic isolation while under a debilitating depression fog was the most alone I have ever felt. To embody grief honestly, to embrace its clumsy and unhinged corners—to survive—required efforts and elixirs of self-preservation. The chorus became an anthem, of sorts; a mantra for letting go of guilt in needing these things—whether medication or TV shows or other vices—to offer myself some grace"
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