news sounds notes visuals events links contact lt



l:   Just just iron  (23:52)
ll:  Just just wood  (23:59)

Sound, text:   Vytenis Eitminavičius
Mastering:   Daina Dieva  
Cover, analogue photos:   rūkana / skeldos
Translation:   Asta E.

Recorded in:   2012-2014
Released 2014:   Terror (TR-33); Skeldos (SLS-01)   

The tape is packed in handmade fabric bag, marked with wax imprint.
Limited edition: 100

The album created in the encirclement of Lithuanian trees.

Listen or buy digital:


To purchase cassette please email to:



The lone house smouldering at night would be heard better
But I'm running with an axe and chopping the maple tree   
To build a base.

It's calmer now. Thick dried panoramas of greyed wooden frames around and no doors. You can get in here through the roof with tied ropes. Hard-pressed clay floor, the ceiling - always different sky.

In the darkest corner of the base there is a box obstructed with stone. It is to store things you want to forget. To make inaudible, invisible, absent. A prison or a little cage for everything what would disturb the peace that's being created here only with their hanging on these walls minted with nails.


I hear how the wood creaks when the metal cuts its body. Such music constantly sounds here. Like a separated fresh drop of water on a leaf, which you tried to observe closely. Flying / falling birds. The red meadows full of young poppies. They always remind an unborn baby, poisoned with opium. Speech. The time you stroke a cat's fur before storm. Like the dreams about seas that we dreamt together on the windy mountain. Like crooning again with insomnia the houses built on snow. From barely audible cry storms born at night while powdery sand picks the full moon. But you take a handful of nails and strike them, imprinting everything into these boundless yantras.




Sometimes the rain starts. Then you observe how swelling walls press the iron spikes stronger and stronger. Rings are filled with viscous drops, sparkles from the the water that is getting soaked. While the air is sliding slowly between the logs. Silently. Mutely. Like lulling a humming mosaic from matured foreboding. Fills with the presence of fog. Ice moss. An integral silent shrine. The inner hut.

The water drips through iron nails so
The hangers for those who stay still
inking as the echoes of longing


Either grass or wind will go on burning. And the smoke of illusion about this new Arkaim will be squeezed by the same stone guardian. And the surfaces will sound as if the revived branches of trees would be crushing a womb. With extruded slivers. Short breath. You step already over the cemetery of iron. And only the echo from the maple cracks will whisper straight into your ear that

Of all, what you've tried to forget, will remain imprints.
Of all, what you've been for, - imprints.
Of all, what you've tried to forget, will remain imprints.
Of all, what you've been for, - imprints.


A crack of maple is like a beginning...     (sls.l)