by High Tor

supported by
  • Streaming + Download

    Includes high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more. Paying supporters also get unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app.

    Download comes with four unnecessary but ostensibly relevant low-quality images.

      name your price




An exhausting year's worth of addenda. Four songs about long-trodden state ground, various means to various ends, and the end of a nearly fatal manic state.


released November 10, 2016



all rights reserved


High Tor Toronto, Ontario

Anti-folk from the west end of Toronto.

contact / help

Contact High Tor

Streaming and
Download help

Redeem code

Track Name: Allotment Road
Maybe one day you'll die a saint. They'll name towers in your honor. They'll probably stand stronger, a bittersweet reminder for those leaping from the ledges, falling from your name. As you almost did yourself, whispering to me: “Like hell, like hell. Like hell, I will.” We're like vandals, bleeding station walls, transcriptions of your tones, worthwhile mistakes, and endless, boundless claims. They weren't worth a solitary note of what we'd wrote, but we wrote notes all the same. (We wrote notes all the same.) “Like hell, like hell. Like hell, I will.” Maybe one day I'll die a man in greater silence, unresounding, some cold November night. I could never be your tower. Lying dead to simple questions that you'd ask me, I hoped I'd be something, but never yours to keep. I won't be theirs to keep. Like hell, like hell. Like hell, I will.
Track Name: Colborne Lodge
Forcefully forgotten, falsely disaffected, clear my downward spiral. Would you leave me here alone, if I asked you to go? Someday you just might need to. Autumn-winter downturn: manic, faded. Wait on my ways, count the days. Biding this time, weathering states. Father to a thousand worthless claims. Trawled on through the wreckage, like a thousand metagraphics. Like two wandering letterists, we were only drifting through it. Calling out to silence, we'll find peace without it. Your ownership's fictitious: you don't own a thing. (You don't own me.) Spiral creator, null sun's relation, refine my ill intentions. Could you tell me if you know a longer way back home? I've no need for your repentance. Fearless hyperbolic, tired vessel's conscience. You'll outlive me, I promise.
Track Name: Grenadier Pond
All my floorboards are buckling, insecure but better-structured. Hide away sincerities with more blurred-in clarity. It wasn't anything, so fall back asleep. Fall back asleep. "I dreamt about drowning you, looked at home in the water. Held your head beneath it, fingers through your hair." Awoke to silence, an illness overcame it. A devil on my back, your bitemarks on my shoulder, and your rhetoric stripped bare. And it's this light. It's the pale blue. It's this nauseating composure. Sunset opiate, rooftop opposite, could you help me? I don't think you realized why it is they named you. A litany of lies that you were far too gone to see through. "And I think they own you now, and I think you deserve it. A voluntary slave to hedonistic ways, there's no way through it." Illuminate false memories. Swatting burning embers from my legs: smoke-addled automation, controlled incineration. Sunset opiate, rooftop opposite, could you help me? Could you help me? Could you help?
Track Name: Centre Road
The rays of light illuminate the fixtures in forms pulled from cables strung across suicide bridges. Our figures and letters, our fictions and promises. If only I'd believed, if only I'd understood. We'll stand bridgeside, eyes glazed and tongue-tied. Familiar city light, remind me I'm alive. And if we jumped from this height, cold and disenfranchised... Well, I think we'd survive. I think we'll survive.