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Everything clouded, only the trunks of trees, the ground hard under three inches of dust. Two withered souls wander through a lengthening night, greying troubadour-types strapped to keytars, surrounded by fog and desperate for a sop of old hope. If there’s nothing left to lose it can only get better. It was beyond time for a band to form from the ashes of long-dead late-80s joy and now one has.
