Cigarettes keep on ghosting up to my window. It makes me nostalgic. Ghosts do too. Wind whipped, no more fireflies, mostly fall, mostly...red brick...a basket of old papers and instruments. A red whistle. The taste of cigarettes in my mind. Aroma as means of rapid transcendence of time, and space, but only consequently, of time.

And
as Evan Parker dissects his soprano while the rest of the Orchestra sings sings, chants, wails, "God Save the King" it seems like the traffic lights outside have lost their rhythm; there is a palpable splinter stabbed down, into the flesh of the earth, between the mechanical and the humanical. Manacled silence. Which leads to space, and I feel, lately, that space plays a very important role in sound, can kill it, titillate it, monger it off to other frequencies until it becomes divine. The adventure of sound.

A tattered coat of language, something about art needing to be an apology, now I've forgotten who said it. I've had urges to integrate speech into my music of late and wonder why, why I crave words now, next to non vocalisms.

My writing feels dense and unwieldy right now, like there is a wall of vines and concrete but it is supposed to be vines, concrete, and a door. And where is the door?

Equinox.