“I accept Chaos, I’m not sure whether it accepts me.”
– Bob Dylan
Sonic elusiveness, or obtrusiveness. Amid a surge, in crud, incongruous, searchingly. Sounds that are lily pads that are peaches that are trash heaps.
Coming through the meadow that is a door that is a symbol of love. Of sound seemingly painted. Press Any Key.
In attention in intention, held captive by information. Failure: the goal of electronic music. As if locked into the servitude of the infinite.
From afar: an angel. On a perch, at dusk. A xylophone in the process of becoming.
The question is: is this music? It is in its existence. Like a castle devoid of foundations.
Like actually a meadow. Or an abyss, busy. With its random sphere of floating values, zigzagging.
Like a vibrational space. Like standing on a platform, entire and luminous. Toward a never-to-be future.
Like self-absorbed distracted solitude. Or when the real is either hostile or remote. A body without organs, a soul without a self.
Micro-victories, uncanny alliances, combat zones. Trans-human metamorphosis. This abode that blurs.
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