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the melt of whisky.

While listening to music, and doing not much else. Coffee—pot—whisky. A warm day at the end of February, on a leap year. Last year on earth. AUTHORITY:

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///nick, mpc

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MUSICDRIVING

goodtimecharlie

the SUICIDES

these are like children’s rhymes, of love poetry

and fingerpaintings / in bold impressed streaks—

a scope defined by garage-made beats. Songs at all don’t matter & none—no boy, not when its sunlight through the blinds rare in these caverns, or the tonic conspired by rainwater collected in ashtray spilling on the walk. Can only be music.

>|Songs puddled; trapped in humble giftboxes, stressed beneath static streamed over in film, so that words sung can only be whispered. For intimacy in this way crawls out from underneath the door, rises to ascending organ keys, and slaps out funksteam twang, let in come that 3string bass. Sing the cymbals’ symbol, whereas the high-hat tips in greeting the snare smacks in a secret handshakes that inexplicably comes to muscle memory. Building it later, like sandcastles then set in stone before the tide rolls in.

Can be anything this way, morphing on mood or season, and reflecting each one’s personal dealings. Changing, as the rotation switches, and new hands hold new tools, so the fire burns at a different gauge, a different temperature, a different color alternating tones on each foothill trail.

And as for us, come together, dancing in the street, declaring playgrounds our empire, cheers to our losses; yet so, too, our state alone with only a fear of silence. The texture of pulp in your mouth. The scent of something familiar on your fingers. Instills cravings and tickles a sense of smell-memory, lighting incense or wrapt shoulders in blankets from the attic. It is the pulsewidth, the pressure of each synth against skin, like compressing a sponge to release the ghosts inside, and from their embrace shortly afterwards leaves the aftertaste of resin.

This is the lingering cadence on our lips.

a coy indifference to deeprun affections drawn lines onto our lips:

like touching accidentally, or dancing while sitting down.

So to just pick them up. Holding them first only to feel their weight, how each curve matches each of your own; in communion with this instrument. // None of it’s real, though the hope is to stand firm in disregarding such. Only sit around, give cheers between standards and go-nowhere shoegaze tinker jams and drink down bottle by bottle, or burn it out joint by joint. It’s nothing but parties in the clouds.

In a form all its own; neither live nor studio, only the play of it, explorations on sonic terrain. Carving out trails, in acoustic wood and simple metals, sometimes with fuzz-electric entwines,

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and drummers busy,they’re drums.them overthumbTo Languid.itLike underthose liketexturedand static, VINYL

VINYL

eatpianokeys(charlie.quintero)

eatpianokeys(charlie.quintero)