Parenthetical Girls - "Don't Give Up" (Kate Bush/Peter Gabriel cover)

"They're killing us," he said, tears in his eyes. Out the window, smoke rose in plumes like the earth were a leaking balloon. Pictures rattled off the wall, in a swept pile of glassy frames, showing scenes of accomplishment and meaningless, wild glory. A servant girl, not barely a year younger than the soldier himself, felt many things as she poured two glasses of wine, from the last bottle in the case. He had asked her to join him in a drink, and despite all that was happening, all the things that were so vast and more important than love, she thought maybe this was his way of sharing his feelings. "They haven't attacked the Mission District, they haven't even been watching it," she said handing him a glass, "That means they don't know about the Secrecy." The Secrecy. What an impotent thing that was now; the forces were closing in, there would be no stopping them, no matter how surprised they might be. "Yes," he said, into his glass, where he looked and saw a little piece of cork, floating in the red. "It's not over yet, sir. Have faith." He looked at her sad apron, at her tired eyes, tired from working double shifts as a nurse in the emergency ward, and he loved her. "Yes, faith is all we have at this moment. A simple belief in the utterly unreal."

Across town, and in a different language: a meager tent sat damply in the drizzle, two men inside, talking low. Already this mission had been talked to death, but still they talked. They talked of oppression, of secret poisons in the water system, of exploding SMS bombs, of cultural persecution. A people reduced to fear and anger and retaliation. A history that would not die, that would fight for survival. Steam from the hot tea filled the air and made them sweat. The tea kettle sat on a wobbly table, on a newspaper, making a wet ring. On an unfinished crossword that had only one answer written in: "PROTEIN". One man, the older of the two, sipped his tea and shook his head, unconvinced, "I understand all that. I do. But this is not the city to capture, not like this. They are too strong, they have forces we don't yet realize." The younger man, his uniform new and beaded with droplets from the steamy air, looked deep into the eyes of the older man and gave his speech that he had given a dozen times or more before, each with its own intensity, like he were constantly rehearsing for the next time he'd perform it, "My father...was murdered...on his way home from work...for the contents of his pockets...four crown and a postage stamp. We need to finish what we've started." He looked out the slit of the tent's door, the smoke rising in plumes like the earth were a well-cooked pie, and put on his preferred capper to the speech, "They're killing us."

--

This song was given as part of an EP called Demos for the Dreaming for people who pre-order Privelege IV: Sympathy For Spastics which is another in their series of limited-run (and truly fantastic) EPs. As usual, they will be individually numbered in human blood.