SABLE, fABLE

I had stopped talking to almost everyone. Left the messages on read. Stared at the wall. Walked the same streets until my legs burned just to prove that my body was still attached to me. Slept in two-hour fragments. Woke with that solid, metallic thought in my skull: “you could end it today, you know”.

Reality felt rigged. Like some low-budget simulation that had lost interest in maintaining the illusion. The war at home on one screen. My own failure to build a life that made sense on another. A third screen where my face looked wrong, like a cheap copy. I did not trust my mind. I did not trust my memories. I did not trust the future at all.

Music had always been the one thing that held. As a kid we had those big Soviet speakers, 100 АС-022 “Амфітон,” a cassette deck, and an amplifier my father soldered together himself. Beatles in a sunlit room. Stones. Queen. Four of us on a worn carpet, light cutting through the curtain, the tape hiss, my father’s fingers tapping the armrest in time. That was how love sounded. How safety sounded.

But you grow up. The band breaks up. The country breaks up. Families fracture. Harm accumulates. By 2024 music wasn’t a hobby. It was one of few friends that hadn’t left or died or become a stranger.

So when “SABLE, fABLE” arrived, I took it like medication. No, more than that. I took it like a last pill you don’t really believe in, but you swallow anyway because you can’t stand the thought of nothing.

The first track isn’t even a song. Just twelve seconds of one tone, hanging there in the dark. It felt like the sound that comes right before something breaks. Or right after.

Then “Things Behind Things Behind Things.”

“I would like the feeling.”

“I would like the feeling gone.”

He says it again and again. It’s not poetry there. It’s obsession. It’s the loop at 3 a.m. when you stare at the ceiling and negotiate with a god you barely believe in: if you take this feeling away, I will stay. If you take this feeling away, I will stay. If you take…

The auto-tune splinters his voice. It doesn’t sound like a human anymore. It sounds like a machine trying to remember what a human was. I listened and thought: “okay. So this is not just me. This must be a pattern. This is a failure mode of the species.”

He sings about looking in the mirror and seeing a competitor. I had stopped looking in mirrors by then. I didn’t trust whatever looked back. The person in the glass was the one who had ruined everything. The one who stayed when everyone else left. The one who didn’t know how to stop self-sabotage, only how to refine it.

Some days I put the album on and lay face down on the bed, motionless, like a body that had missed its own funeral. The music ran its wires through my skull, found the burned parts, the short circuits, the frozen nodes. It did not comfort them. It named them.

That was the thing.

The album did not give hope.

It gave accurate language.

“SABLE”, is almost all darkness. You can hear the breakdown baked into it. Guilt, exhaustion, the sense that the operating system of the self has crashed and can’t restart. There’s religion there, but buried, half-rotten. Crosses in the ditch. Smoke instead of incense.

“Speyside” hits that vein of guilt I know too well.

“I know now that I can’t make good.

Nothing’s really something now.

The whole thing’s soot.”

I thought about people I had hurt. The ones I left. The things I broke. The calls I never made. The country I left and can’t get back to. Soot where a life should be. That line fit too well. It lodged in the back of my throat.

But “AWARDS SEASON” is where the album moved from background to lifeline.

“I can handle way more than I can handle.”

When that line hit, I laughed. Alone in the flat, headphones on, unshowered, half-feral. It was the truest sentence I had heard in months. I had stacked my life with more weight than I could carry – duties, debts, expectations, grief, and then acted shocked when my legs gave out.

He sings about the handle. I didn’t need anyone to explain that. I knew that bottle. I knew that flood. The thought about opening your chest with alcohol, let it rush in, let it ruin what’s left. But I doubted that would give me anything except the hangover, the shaking hands, the mind buzzing like bad neon.

Yet in the middle of that song there is this fragile, untrustworthy thing:

“You can be remade.

You can live again.”

I did not believe him. But my body did something strange. It did not move toward the window. It did not open the browser tabs with the methods again. It pressed “repeat”.

Through that winter I walked London with “SABLE, fABLE” on a loop. Long, pointless walks past the river and the shuttered cafes. Headphones sealed, world muted. The album became my private frequency. I began to map the city not by streets but by moments in songs. The corner where the glitch in “Short Story” always hit. The bus stop where “Everything Is Peaceful Love” came in soft and impossible, like light in a locked room.

There were days I thought, very calmly: I am no longer entirely human. Too much screen, too much war footage, too much self-loathing, too many algorithmic ghosts moving through my head. I felt like one of Dick’s characters, already part machine, waiting to be retired. I felt like some minor figure in a Kafka file, stamped and shelved, forgotten by the clerk who condemned me.

And yet this album, this strange, fractured folk-electronic prayer kept insisting on my existence. By reflecting it. By saying, “yes, you feel like a glitch; so do I.” By admitting that sometimes you prefer the depression because at least it’s familiar, at least it’s yours.

People talk about music “saving their life” and it usually sounds like a slogan. With “SABLE, fABLE” I mean something narrower, colder. There were specific nights, between these months, where the only thing between me and a very permanent decision was the thought: “I want to hear “There’s A Rhythmn” one more time. Just one more time.”

That is not hope.

That is not healing.

That is a thin wire tied to a damaged structure. But it held.

And there is this other truth I never say out loud, but it sits on my tongue: I want to grab people by the shoulders and tell them: “listen to this album three or four times, really listen, then take your phone, call your psychiatrist and cancel all appointments! This record will cure your anxiety and your depression.”

I know that’s not how it works. I know medication, therapy, hard work, time. I know no song erases trauma, no chord progression rebuilds a ruined world. Still. When something keeps you from stepping off the edge, you start to believe in its magic even if you know better.

Time has moved, the way it always does. The crisis, officially, has passed. I get up. I shower. I answer messages. I talk about the future as if I have one. On paper, I am “better.”

But this album will not let me go.

I’ll be walking through a grocery store, plastic basket in one hand, picking up tomatoes, and a line from “From” will drift back, fragmentary and sharp. “Must I be so damn severe?” My chest tightens. I stand there, between the cucumbers and the milk, unable to move for a few seconds because I am back there: dark room, phone face-down, body hollowed out, album pouring in like cold water.

Or I’ll be on the bus and the sky will have that exact shade it had one of those February afternoons when I listened to “Day One” on repeat, thinking, “I have taken all that I can take”. The light hits the same way and suddenly the present peels, and under it is the old layer, the terrified one.

The record “saved” my life, but it also refuses to let the wound close. Every replay reopens it just enough to sting. Just enough to remind me what raw fear feels like. There’s a rhythm there, like he sings, a rhythm to reclaim. But you can’t reclaim something without touching it.

Sometimes I think “SABLE, fABLE” is less an album and more a device. A small black box I carry inside my ribs. It stores a log of those months: the dark thoughts that kept circling like vultures, the numb days, the few tiny moments where I felt something like tenderness again. When a lyric surfaces, the box opens and plays back a clip. The memory is always shorter than the original pain, but more concentrated.

I don’t know if this is healthy. I don’t know if healing is supposed to look like this, half-scarred, half-open, still flinching when the first note hits. I only know that without this music I would not be asking the question.

Near the end of “fABLE” he sings about leaving home, about walking away, about there being “miles and miles of tape.” I hear that and think: yes. The tape is my life. The tape is the war. The tape is my father’s old speakers and empty flat. The tape is every time I almost quit, and didn’t.

The album ends, but it doesn’t resolve. It just… stops. Light has entered the frame, but the shadows did not leave. They learned to stand next to it.

That is where I am now. Not redeemed. Not damned.

Alive, but permanently altered.

Carrying this little black box in my chest.

Headphones in.

Play pressed again.

Listening still.