Honestly, I can’t sit here and write about music whilst my elected representative is voting to drop bombs on human beings, voting to rain fire upon actual living and breathing human beings, voting to return them to dust.

I can’t just sit here and write about music when my elected representative is voting to spend taxes on bombs that turn other human beings into dust, at a cost of around half a million an airstrike, whilst telling me with a friendly knowing smile that we, the “we as a country” we, must make some tough choices.

We must cut, devalue, and close our public services, one by one we must run them into the ground. Our schools, hospitals, libraries, fire stations, police stations, our lifeboats. We must not protect ourselves, heal, educate, care, organise, have a choice, or try to change. We must just watch passively as they burn, we must let them get on with it, we must accept this as reality and go to work and buy christmas presents and complain about the weather. The goddamn awful weather. I had to carry an umbrella. The horror, the horror of it all.

We, the "all in this together unless you can afford to opt out and look on in mock terror" we, must destroy all the things that help the people that need our help the most, because the vulnerable don’t make donations to my elected representative, because the vulnerable won’t increase the stock value of my elected representative’s corporate interests, because we all have to make allowances when we are at war.

I can’t sit here and write about music resigned to the fact that my elected representative is hungry to kill real human beings, that it has been voted for and so it will be done, that they laughed. That they fucking laughed as they filed out of the room, delirious from the thrill of the kill.

Here is a song by Shearwater called 'Castaways'. You might as well call it my single of the week.

By shadowing all the darkened fields of forgotten words and civilian lives, through violence, through the changing guards, through the grinding away, and the furious marching. By gathering the holy light and weathering a cast away life, and the rising fear.

The hollowness of the flags and gods that are raised in the air in the wake of their raging.

Your skinny arms hold a lantern up on the brightest array of the stars in their moorings. Summoning the holy light on their citadels, the blackening sky, the collapsing sun, the burning wall, that approaches our eyes. You live again, in the shuddering light of these images.

This valediction: You are running from a rising tide, you are castaways.