And into the light, New Order.
The way clouds form in Prague.
Reading Bernhard’s Correction with its call of purity through auto-negation (cf. Closer wearily disintegrating into icy beauty).
In fact, any of those brutal writers who make Sylvia Plath look like an amusingly mad aunt.
New Horizons, heading into the cold depths of the Kuiper Belt without blinking.
100000 anaemic imitations pallidly strumming their guitars, staring moodily, writing shopping lists in their head.
Posthumous fan culture, spectral Curtises and Cobains standing on the battlements of teenage rooms.
“Oh Manchester, so much to answer for”.
Werner Herzog etc. etc.
A dense forest and a disused factory in the same image.
Thick frost painting everything with winter.