I consider myself articulate, especially when that articulation relates to music. It is one of the few things I analyze extensively — almost instinctually. I have a specific taste; swelling drums that climax during chorus and contextual buildup for those drums during verses. If I’m feeling particularly rebellious, I enjoy harsh production and bratty themes. Lyrics are rarely of importance to me, and I can name the only two albums I’ve ever praised lyrically; Regional at Best by Twenty One Pilots and The Front Bottom’s self titled. These two albums are not necessarily particularly well written, but they struck certain chords with me at essential times in my life; my first depression, and my first heartbreak. Even when considering these albums, music has never broken me before.

When I listen to beach-life-in-death, that changes. This is not a well written song; this is an essential work of art. I don’t relate to it. At all. Instead, I embody it. I find myself, for the first time in my brief marriage to music, at a loss for words; the 12 minute run-time somehow consumes an eternity, yet ends too quickly. It occupies the contemporary and the timeless, transcends space yet grounds reality; beach-life-in-death is flawless. Its contradictions form, instead of paradox, infinity: if not omniscience. It consumes me, and I’m okay with that. It reminds me that the disgusting fucking place I call my world has the constant potential for beauty. The grime and the muck and the hopelessness are all essential to the human condition. And that’s terrifying. Beach-Life-In-Death achieves sentience.