I stole the phrase ‘Boneclock’ wholesale from David Mitchell’s novel “The Bone Clocks”. In the book the phrase is a slur that an immortal being uses to describe humans, steadily marching forward, running out their time.
I wrote this during the coldest part of the winter, the part that always gets me feeling a little stir crazy. Midwestern winters sometimes feel impenetrable to me - it’s dark by the time you leave work, if you’re not trudging through snow you're watching out for ice, and doing anything other than what’s necessary feels frivolous. There might not be snow on the ground but the wind chill is 20 degrees below zero; you can throw all the salt on your sidewalk you want but the thawing snow will freeze over night and there will just be more ice there tomorrow. The surface changes, the core doesn't yield.
In one sense the track doesn’t really change much - timbres open up, phrases become whole, things grow and recede. The core doesn’t yield. But it moves forward, and I think at the end you’re in a different place than when we began.
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