rough skeletons

A cold, cold, landscape. Saturation spilling out from the double amp combo corner. Redneck loops fluttering drunk around the room. Sardonic in space. Keeping warm and ready. Shepherd checks his tape. A six o'clock haircut runs through his mind. He shakes it off. It's the sound he wants. Shepherd checks his tape. Brushes his bangs. Waits for a response. A cold, cold, landscape. Beyond the mattress in the adjacent corner inhabits Marchildon. With surely more then just a wink, he rips into a fairy tale fingerpick, and contemplates a blink. An unnerving falsetto that he's been dreaming on i think. An all inclusive baritone vacation. Certain of this, they both take a pull, asking one another their favorite drink. Shepherd says," Beer of course!" suprised at Marchildon's confused answer," Rum and Coke?" But none of this matters. Beyond this room sits Computer Trickery and Quarter Inch Heaven. They're melding up a mix and laughing at each other's so called faults. " It is uncertain who will be able to notice the difference between the two," Computer Trickery yelps as Quarter Inch Heaven complains about where he's been cut. Shepherd and Marchildon take another pull. They let it settle in their bellies. One with technical tricks, and a textural mind; the other with a poetic pen, and stolen chord changes. They sit back knowing that the next batch has already come. Roughly performed. Waiting in a private vault! Any takers? The SOUND and SONG link.