Rust Belt from Errata by End States

A landscape sketched in an economy of pencil strokes from memory. Fine staccato lines define our town. The arcane maps that we drew out, we built perimeters and scaled our doubts. Our buildings stand in judgement, then subside. But I didn’t come for the view or the weather and raising it to the ground won’t make it better. The residue of nameless rage in the frail structures of men. Mute and doomed they wander through the arterial streets condemned. Lost souls held accountable. Rigid and ceremonial. Their destiny prefigured by the rocks - locked in the minerals. So sit and rust with me in a stubborn city. We’re chained to what we own and bound by pity. We sleep among these bones and unsent letters. Wolves will cull their own and we’re not better.

• Acoustic
• Folk
• Pop
• Punk
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• Sunderland