Glitch can turn any in-the-pocket beat into the freest of free drums. The price for such freedom is digital click. These clicks will count us into nowhere, some void at first glance. As the eyes adjust, the voidless black is, in fact, dense purple foliage. Somehow the sense of touch has betrayed us at this point. Nonetheless, we use our senseless hands to pull back purple palms. At the edge of the forest - maybe nine miles away or so - a sitar rests on its back, slowly sinking into the soil. We push through the foliage, hoping to get to the sitar in time.
Nine hours, nine miles later, we’ve made it, but it’s almost out of sight, buried alive. A kunti sticks out like the tip of an iceberg. Eager to play, we plunge our hands into the soil, which angers the insects around these parts. The penalty is pain. The price of freedom. The price for saying “yes” to a free vacation without inquiring as to “where exactly is it that we are going?”
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