EPISODE · Jun 12, 2026 · 1 MIN
Toward The Grey Sky
from FRED STZ MUSIC · host FRED STZ
"My surges of enthusiasm are braked by the fear I read in the faces of those who remain inert, under the weight of their own fright. Life is movement and they are nearly in inertia, so much they dare not, they cannot manage… Yes, they slide, they seep, they go silent, their eyes fixed like pub windows on a Sunday morning, a stagnant water under the bridge, and I pass, I stumble over their stares, soft pebbles, frozen mud. Enthusiasm then shrinks back, oh, curls up, a small damp creature under the sole. Do their lips move? No, barely a mutter of nothing, a prayer without a god. And yet, to move, yes, to move, a finger, an eyelash, a hip that swings like a boat on the Liffey, but them, no, stuck fast to the bench, to the counter, to their lukewarm fear, the fear that oozes from their pores, a sweetish sweat, the smell of Sunday after mass. I’d like to shout, to dance, to smash the glass, but their inertia catches me, gloves me, turns me into a statue in the middle of the pavement, and breath short, I look at them, they look at me, and we are all, alas, in the same jar, dead fish floating, pale bellies toward the grey sky."
What this episode covers
"My surges of enthusiasm are braked by the fear I read in the faces of those who remain inert, under the weight of their own fright. Life is movement and they are nearly in inertia, so much they dare not, they cannot manage… Yes, they slide, they seep, they go silent, their eyes fixed like pub windows on a Sunday morning, a stagnant water under the bridge, and I pass, I stumble over their stares, soft pebbles, frozen mud. Enthusiasm then shrinks back, oh, curls up, a small damp creature under the sole. Do their lips move? No, barely a mutter of nothing, a prayer without a god. And yet, to move, yes, to move, a finger, an eyelash, a hip that swings like a boat on the Liffey, but them, no, stuck fast to the bench, to the counter, to their lukewarm fear, the fear that oozes from their pores, a sweetish sweat, the smell of Sunday after mass. I’d like to shout, to dance, to smash the glass, but their inertia catches me, gloves me, turns me into a statue in the middle of the pavement, and breath short, I look at them, they look at me, and we are all, alas, in the same jar, dead fish floating, pale bellies toward the grey sky."
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Toward The Grey Sky
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