These are mournful layers, meandering into a continuum of hopelessness. Its every slight. Every jibe. Every set of twin babies and Albinos murdered by mysticism’s goons. Its every lynching. Its every invisible scream on mute that longs to be rid of the melanated skin that drinks in the light of condemnation. Staccato strings speak on it. Of it. Through it. Every ancient utterance that put the hex on the embryonic slave with umbilical manacles that blood follows into the blue lit world. Its the three fifths unamended. Its the pretension of belonging. Its the vacant eyes after the bullet has rested in the hell of the black bodied horror of existence that is burdened by the kick drum of a haunted heart beat. Its the past, present and future damnation. Its the complicity of spirits at the table of human systems with monolithic consequences.