A STONE FISH CRYING TEARS OF PAINT:
Shaking for reasons unknown, information attacks in random waves.
Late international phone calls interrogate what remains at the
end of days. Words tumbling from a loose mouth, fractured images
collide, recalled between muffled ears.
Get in the car, drive, keep driving, focus on nothing, the road,
soothed in the underscore of radio 3. A single piano beautifully
recorded, clear as a single bell, a light in the dark needs nothing,
offers everything. Sonically rearranged slipped into the first
parking space of the day it starts snowing.
Listening to Motorpsycho ‘Here Be Monsters’