bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonn...

Jah the bleak, I like to think. We make factual pain music. As kind of cavedwellers we built a primitive copy and paste laboratory in a brain in a room. The simple idea is that the bed is the glue department and the settee is the scissors department and you tap the buttons, twist the dials, splicing and looping, rewiring the loneliest and the most howling times we can find.

All of the noise to my ear has the distinct echo of being made on a Be Light keyboard: i.e. plotless, first person, the past a glitch.

This control room I rent as I type of another I. This is my room for now, meaning I live alone, a bonus for the ring of Radio Berlin but by the time this document is done I could be in another cage which is a worry of the future but at least this month and next the rent is paid and the rooms around like the man above and somebody nextdoor who every day bangs a hammer, as if tapping a nail into wood, they’re quiet now and I am in bed thinking about my snakeball notes of memory over memory for which the technique is to freewheel and squelch, matching a thousand of these faint almost ribs of pictures at the back of the eye, rear-view-mirror-shit, matching them to the letters and the colon and the comma while the bones in each is a passing photo tested and produced in my little DIY ghost lab: the bed doubles as the scissors department and the settee is the adhesive I like to think.

Engineered at Shoom-in-Me Studio, that Raleigh Banana hell. My mind. Spinning in the maggot of the universe.