Writing up a journal from early this morning and trying to call it content.
All I know is, it’s definitely after 3, and most likely well after 4, on this particular Thursday. I’m almost sure I witnessed this on my Fiio. Speaking of the DAC, I’ve got it on right now, with the volume up to a happy little hum, listening now, to a track that’s a collab between Boris and Sunn O))): “Her Lips Were Wet With Venom”. Bearing in mind, WHAT I am going for here, is a relaying of much information, without raising my little head from my journal. The next thing I know is: clammy. I’m slightly damp with sweat and this is adding intensity to the recording I’m listening to. Especially as a little pedal-steel and dulcimer just-about audibly rolled by, as i write this sentence, and as i wrote the previous one also. Oh its ground to a halt (as a unit). I unwelcome that. But I will also welcome it for the exact same reason: the nature of all of that genre (drone). (It could go on forever, couldn’t it?) So, now, after peeling off my headphones, comes a reality check. First, there’s a bit of daylight in the sky. Second, that after listening to that, the second of two albums, it means that it must surely be after five o’clock in thee AM. OK- 05:11am. Where I live, that means I’m entitled to make more racket than Solid Snake while still being slightly more stealthy than Peter Parker. That’s fine. The bathroom gets a celebratory flush, before I cut the act at that, and not pretend to myself any longer, that I’m gonna get a good nights’ sleep. I will abandon music listening in its tracks, even though I could use my favorite speaker at a low volume. There’s a car alarm going off every time i pick up the pen, and it’s annoying me but it’s not going to write a better article than me. I’m now going to have my breakfast: a caffeine, and a magnesium tablet. Just one of each. Nothing zany, except perhaps a vitamin B complex… And now 15 minutes later it feels like, with the lack of sleep, haunted stream of gonzo report of the past hour, and the sun now casting azure across the kitchen tile work, that I’m on some queasy pound-shop pep. In my mouth and across my tongue is only the taste of yellow, which is like having a small fall broken by a mildly charged fence.
The Humble Rock Dove 