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OCV had an 8 day countdown and 8 stories of the album posted on their Facebook.
Passenger Killed in Hit and Run
The full moon sends out single rays of light and they pierce the dense fog, guiding my eyes towards the burning wreckage. Inside of it, my best friend is lying dead. The windshield is broken, small fragments are mired in his face and neck. He only had to endure the pain shortly, everything happened so fast, the racing pulse stopped abruptly.
Even though the black smoke has disappeared, the putrid smell of gas and burned rubber remains while I try not to puke. I'm freezing. Misery has caught me. Nearby a bird starts to sing sorrowlessly, but it can not convey any comfort. Fifty meters away the guiding rail was bent out of shape, when golden sparks flared up and the car slithered along the metal, until it overturned several times. The face wreathing in pain appears in front of me, the piercing scream echoes in my ears. Now the auto is standing on it's wheels again, the roof is dented, the engine hood compressed to the steering wheel. The bumper is only held by a mere bolts. Bent metal, a blazing inner. And my best friend is lying in there dead. I'm to blame. Hopelessly trapped only the seat belt keeps the lifeless body upright.
Without Even Breathing
When it's raining, water gathers in the curbstones until it trickles down the drains along the street and purifies the soul of the city drop by drop. All it's hate and atrocity are conveyed into the intricate sewer-system to thereabouts find their eternal banishment. On days like these however, when the heat lasting for weeks lets man's cruelty linger on and remorseless sun beams burn bloody memorials of humiliation onto the pavements, not even the cooling shadow of the night can offer resistance. Not far from here, a man was stabbed to death ruthlessly. On my way to the factory I could still see the white and red barrier tape, separating pedestrians from the bloodstains sticking to the asphalt. The neighboring wall is laced with endless posters, whose events have passed weeks ago. Black on shiny yellow they continue to send their message of hope, to distract people from their everyday lives and to forget their dull loneliness. But for years pedestrians no longer pay attention to them, the traffic lights flash green and the stream goes on across the time-worn crosswalk, which I passed a few hours ago as well.
Highway Lights
Total silence surrounds me. The cars on the ground stand still, the stoplights of the convoy are reflected in the calm water of the river and dip bypassing flotsam in spooky red. Screams of horror suffocate on their way to heaven. Some people avert their eyes in shock, before they mourningly embrace the ones next to them. Others stop in the middle of the street, drop their fully packed shopping bags, trying to comprehend what happens in front of them. They're asking questions, without the chance for an answer.
The Only Ones Dead (Are Those Who Are Forgotten)
I open my eyes faint-heartedly and watch my clenched fists open up, just to devote to nothingness in the moment of the fall. Seconds pass as if they are hours. Seconds, progressing slowly, to deplore my being and condemn my past. Gone are the days with their nostalgic feel. And with nostalgia, my t-shirt, which was navy blue at that time, seems to have faded as well. Now it is flagging in the air. The tears I'm shedding are dried by the draft, one last falls towards the approaching ground like a lonely raindrop. The blink of an eye and the darkness of the night gave way to a lurid, blinding light.
Hopes of Yore
Not a single car has passed for over half an hour. In the middle of nowhere, forty kilometers from the city, the fog eerily hovers around my feet and veils the burning car a few steps away. Branches, whose leaves are to bloom only in the coming weeks, are rustling in the wind. I can hear sorrow's quiet whispers. He aspirates in my ear, ensuring that he'll be in my eyes forever, that I'll never be able to get rid of him. The world falls apart in the ditch, like my father used to warn me ten years ago, when I had obtained my driver's license. Back then, I was a careful driver, stopping at the traffic lights when they flashed green already, giving right of way to everybody, never speeding. To this day, I believed not so see my father's reproachful I-told-you-so-face ever again.
I let my self sink into the moist grass and feel the warmth leave my body. Face to the frightening lake of darkness at the end of the turn, the stars ceased to sparkle. The effect of the alcohol has stopped due to the shock and my headache is boosted beyond all bearing. I'm dizzy from the impact of the airbag, several abrasions and cuts on my arms and in my face burn like hell. Then, I try to get up and start walking towards the darkness.
Summer's Orange Haze
Gradually the lights of the city come to new life, while I follow the random flickering of the large neon sign three blocks away until I lose my gaze in the distance. The sun slowly descends behind the silhouettes of the skyscrapers, taken over by the approaching night. The orange haze on the horizon is reflected in the windshields of the passing cars, raising the dust, which has been accumulated on the street. In front of the station, a few steps further, moped riders thrust themselves into every small gap between the cabs, whose drivers hope for further passengers while smoking and chatting. The passengers, however, hurry down into the subway, passing graffiti stained walls, entering jam-packed wagons, where unknown faces are sitting in tense silence from one station to the next.
Polaroids and Chinese Whispers
We arrived at the birthday party a little late, as we were looking for the right gift for my best friend's sister, before we finally started our one-hour drive. Laughingly numerous guests welcomed us, their spirits were running high because of several drinks already. I have not been in such a good mood in a long time, the friendly atmosphere made me forget the past weeks' sorrow. Just like at weddings, single use cameras were lying on the tables, provided to catch the individual memories of this night, to hinder their transience, to brave oblivion. Some anecdotes have gone through this process already, changed their details: a new name here, a different place there. The Chinese whispers of remembrance
Within the Nick of Time
I heard the wind crooning gently
my ballad to forget:
close your eyes
cross your arms with mine
for the stars to weep
and your light to shine
Forgiveness is the strength of the world.
Repression is the weakness of the soul.
Making of video:
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