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Scorpion on the center fifth still ringing with yesterday’s reverb, and this last little while has been a shotgun blast of high-frequency neurosis and apologetic chapter closings, but truly seems to be gliding into something less bedraggled and confusing.

One thing of note has been the recently discovered rip in the seam, which means another shedding of the skin is approaching. I feel like I’m building up a charge as my newest fictionsuit begins to unfold itself in some weird suburb of space and time. The frosted spaces in-between. Monsoons in December and the Happy Mondays are playing on the radio right now, reminding me that it’s just a map, and that after all is said and done, the labyrinth only has one exit, ta.

The coming of this newest platform isn’t without a few upgrades to the operating system: the elder statesman analog that has been percolating is being recoded, deleting the “lost loves” lines from the recipe, but also intensifying the spooky blue electric cool of the metapunk condition.

Reformat the soft tissues, rewire the electric brain parts. Killing the ancient, and assemble in future tongue.

Cold time travel.

Everything continues to become real, to be made manifest, and, as always, I expect to very soon meet myself here. The past, the present, the future… fractals on my crystal’s skin.

More later.



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