VI.BE

The music of APOKALYPSO lives a life of its own.

Sometimes she is Kalypso. She sips shakes and smokes cigarettes. She keeps to her roommates—too pretty for the call center. She frays and she fails, hiding days of the calendar.

Other times she becomes APOKALYPSO. She tilts and she derails, the ship with the man. She hurls stones at windows, sings like she throws up. She kicks and she skims, a comet out of touch.