Roska

Whilst walking the mutt today I came across an unsettling sight. A murder of screeching crows had gathered together by one of the footpaths in London Fields. They were jabbering frantically at each other and tugging at something in the middle of the circle they had formed. As I got closer I could see that the thing they were obsessing over was a dead one of their own. One crow would grab the limp birds wing while another crow would grab at its tail feathers, pulling the corpse into weird and unpleasant shapes. The others would screech and cackle, and it seemed to me that some sort of judgement had been passed. After a few minutes of this a Staffy came bounding through their midst and snatched up the body in its jaws. The crows scattered to the sky. They circled and screamed, flapping the air black with feathers and noise. As they whirled up to the clouds, the nervy synths and whip crack snares of Time Stamp blasted from the heavens. The jittery excitement of it all was complete and perfect. Then I went home.

Ian Mcquaid

ROSKA TIME STAMP by factmag