Impossible Task

A broken back can only break so long and in its mending, must brace itself for further bruising. What is worse: to know the ache or the question of its causes—the denial of its affliction? Torments uniformed bear terrors yet unformed, feverish in perpetual ruin. Who knows the full price of equity appraised in injury?

In Another New Calligraphy's fourth Impossible Task, little visions are jurisdictions and meaty sour flesh is clamped solid between clenched teeth. Dates are engraved as legs twitch on screen. An audience remains too quiet. A soft dial tone scores the days. Bricks show mould-black bellies and chests become mist while dirt unpacks and unravels. Arms embrace to undo the nightmares of being tossed into pools of snakes. Despite its reputation, the basic existence of Tyrannosaurus is rendered implausible. Sungiants wake from rest as tumbling lights rise from astral graves.

Please give yourself a quiet moment to enjoy Impossible Task.