The Eraser by Thom Yorke
Cedar twigs smoulder in lavender oil as I listen to you whisper about losing consciousness in that peculiar, menacing tone of yours. You computerize the air I am trying to fill with souvenirs from the natural world. Frantic, hypnotic rhythms, sleep-slurred murmurs from the lost and miserable. Yes, our dislocated age. A painful shoulder, jarred free from the cuddly joint. Freedom is as much a blessing as a condemnation. Oh Thom. You are Nietzsche's continuation, whether or not you know it or give a rat's ass. Your intention or the absence thereof has nothing to do with such an electric philosophical kinship. But where Freidrich calls on the Overman, you call on each of us to draw something heroic from Nothingness. It is hard to hear.