Music:
"This kiss, unfinished, lips to receiver in the parking lot, a pucker shot through a fiber optic wire to an answering machine toward switchboards and stations transmitting in blips to satellites, this kiss thrown earthward and shooting down coils, around pipeline and electric power lumbering underground, up threads and transistors and transference points. This kiss is zeroes and ones jumbled and tossed into a pneumatic system, unscrambled at the end and scrawled onto a tape recorder slowly rolling at the side of your bed, then slapping back, reverbed off the ringer, a tinny phantom of the smooch like a smack on an aluminum can, up the same veins through the belly of the same satellite and softly to the side of my head; this kiss is home before the next exhalation leaves. I'm stooped in the booth, pounding quarters into the slot; yellow light droops over the asphalt, and your ghost, too cool and elusive with those hands and mouth sings around me in the smell of gasoline; whose mouth is this, scratched in static, some droplet of a sigh, atomized, and sputtering digitized into my room?"
- Mike Doughty
[ love ]
[ ritch hedberg ]
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aim = shanked jenga
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