“I had to search out clues that maybe Eastern Europe and Turkey held, to fill the harrowing emptiness that had become my solar plexus, my womb. I had been drained, literally drained.” (Piece by Piece)

Cruel is that last remnant of the Vlad the Impaler record she meant to write. The vampire album born even before the bloodletting began.

She fed this one on blood – her blood, blood of the project that she couldn’t complete, and blood of the song itself. Can you taste it, metallic on your tongue? She cut this whole track with the band just to exsanguinate it, press it to vinyl and scratch it back in, build it again.

Cruel is a cannibal.

That monolithic, distorted bass. Vine twists around the need. But, even in high winds she cannot fly. Her operatic wails brushing against marimba, the static electricity. That final chorus, throbbing, an electrical storm.

She cannot float. She cannot sustain. She does not know why.

The spark is still out.