Post-midnight, the hours drag like knives; the seconds scrape by like needles. Blinking lights on a console, a twitching eyelid, and a warning note on the edge of your hearing. Pastel green paint flakes. You make it to sunrise, blow the steam gently off a cup of thin tea, and stay awake long enough to remember: same routine tonight.
Live from a bunker, somewhere in 1971.
Sometimes, it happens so quickly. On the edge of sleep, a tiny loop caught in my mind. It didn’t end up anything like I planned in my head. However, I liked the results, and it is rare that I knock over two tracks I like in such quick succession.
There is a narrative here. I’ll let you know once it is more solid, concrete.