Count von Count swallows his numbers along with keg foam and guitar dissonance in a solo red cup. In “Randbemerkung Ueber Das Zaehlen Nr. 1,” that inevitable moment comes quickly, scouring and chafing the pep band scrunched together in the parlor, humping out oompa flavor while the mead pours freely.
In the end, this bacteria growth, this dissonance, will swallow all other sounds, suck down their flavors, and scour them down to nothing. The map will be updated: a desert of drone and ambiance. After appropriation, original sources will be quarantined, brushed aside to wither. No chattering teeth and mead spills. A few tarps, plastic bags, over the parlor.
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