EPISODE · Feb 24, 2026 · 4 MIN
Condemned
from FRED STZ MUSIC · host FRED STZ
The rain falls with a soft and determined cruelty A tiny hammer on a nail, in a box I'm growing used to I sit here in the dusk, the shadows they stretch long Like the fingers of the night, playing a forgotten song And I grind my thoughts, between the stones of memory and dread Till the living ideas are just ashes on the bed Just a fine, grey dust where something beautiful once grew I see it in their eyes, the old dark flower blooms Pushing up through cracked pavements, in our living rooms A brutal poetry sprayed upon the wall The chosen silence that precedes the fall It's the harvest of the cold machine, the gospel of the sale Leaving hollow men, a fleet and a frail Ready for the hard, simple music of the fascist drum And I am too old now to believe in hope We have learned nothing from our mistakes, after all Just a pendulum swinging on a fraying rope Waiting for the shadow of the axe to fall I am too old now to believe in hope I feel like a man in a cell at dawn Listening for the crunch of boots upon the lawn The world outside my window is a painted stage For my own final act of impotent rage My family, my republic, lies fractured in the cold The story that we shared is finished and is told Love has packed its bags and left this house of wind Every empire's end is written in its own beginning A language written in the blood we refuse to stop spinning From the argument, the fist, to the shattered windowpane To the march, the war, the mass grave in the rain A story told a thousand times, a plague upon us sent And I am just a witness, too tired to repent 'Cause I am too old now to believe in hope We have learned nothing from our mistakes, after all Just a pendulum swinging on a fraying rope Waiting for the shadow of the axe to fall I am too old now to believe in hope I watch a car pass, hissing on the wet street Someone in a warm room, in a warm, forgetting sleep I am not certain I want to see another sun This weary weight of knowing, this race I haven't won The thought returns, not a scream, just a sigh A low and worn-out sound, as the well runs dry I am too old now Too old We have learned nothing Nothing at all The bones of the evening, scattered by the wind
What this episode covers
The rain falls with a soft and determined cruelty A tiny hammer on a nail, in a box I'm growing used to I sit here in the dusk, the shadows they stretch long Like the fingers of the night, playing a forgotten song And I grind my thoughts, between the stones of memory and dread Till the living ideas are just ashes on the bed Just a fine, grey dust where something beautiful once grew I see it in their eyes, the old dark flower blooms Pushing up through cracked pavements, in our living rooms A brutal poetry sprayed upon the wall The chosen silence that precedes the fall It's the harvest of the cold machine, the gospel of the sale Leaving hollow men, a fleet and a frail Ready for the hard, simple music of the fascist drum And I am too old now to believe in hope We have learned nothing from our mistakes, after all Just a pendulum swinging on a fraying rope Waiting for the shadow of the axe to fall I am too old now to believe in hope I feel like a man in a cell at dawn Listening for the crunch of boots upon the lawn The world outside my window is a painted stage For my own final act of impotent rage My family, my republic, lies fractured in the cold The story that we shared is finished and is told Love has packed its bags and left this house of wind Every empire's end is written in its own beginning A language written in the blood we refuse to stop spinning From the argument, the fist, to the shattered windowpane To the march, the war, the mass grave in the rain A story told a thousand times, a plague upon us sent And I am just a witness, too tired to repent 'Cause I am too old now to believe in hope We have learned nothing from our mistakes, after all Just a pendulum swinging on a fraying rope Waiting for the shadow of the axe to fall I am too old now to believe in hope I watch a car pass, hissing on the wet street Someone in a warm room, in a warm, forgetting sleep I am not certain I want to see another sun This weary weight of knowing, this race I haven't won The thought returns, not a scream, just a sigh A low and worn-out sound, as the well runs dry I am too old now Too old We have learned nothing Nothing at all The bones of the evening, scattered by the wind
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Condemned
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