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granted, it's not a typical scene you'd equate with a portal to Hell... well, maybe the damp, germy debris that litters the ground might speak differently (i swear, you could put a dumpster back there, and people would still prefer to flick butts everywhere else. rebels, y'know. yeah, right). a propos, maybe. when you factor in the black arching dome of late evening thunderstorms laced with veins of electricity, the rasping shriek of frogs, and the low-key sci-fi trill of legions of cicadas... the lord of the Underworld wouldn't feel too out of place. or so you'd imagine. DC would certainly have it coming... the politicos, that is. not you, Ally. the atmosphere and my mood have found a equilibrium. maybe it's just air pressure, or another self-indulgent funk, or a testosterone spike on a capped well, or some insignificant shit. it's making the short life cycle of these bugs look somewhat appealing... like that TymonDogg fiddle attack on Sandinista!: "i wanna lose this skin, i'm imprisoned in." not quite sure if dying immediately after sex sounds too savory--poetic, maybe... climactic, surely. so this is why i lapsed writing for six days... to spout the same nonsense. ach, the brain... like ten pounds of crap stuffed in a five-pound bag. sandwiched amongst the detritus of the past week, one bolt of amazement... centering, naturally, on the studio. a place that i'd nearly abandoned. the last time i was there, it was part of a fund-raiser... naturally, i go back to the same thing. this time, though... there was a nice twist. a pledge call from an ex-DJ/graduate: from Sierra Leone. as in Africa.
where we have no signal strength, whatsoever. hell, we have no signal strength fifty miles from central Virginia. the powerful tool that is the web, though... and of course, a human being on the other end of it... sometimes make the clouds part. which would be most welcome, right about now... waiting for the next batch of heavenly pyrotechnics. |
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