between songs, a dance still exists. the hiss and the scratch of the vinyl. the static life. the deep whispers that reveal the constant circumnavigation of a being and a body. when the melodies die, will it always be like this? alone; neck, knees and back still moving in minuscule rotations; wandering the delicate path of the needle of a personal history.

whenever i wake up, i'm falling down.

happy bird-day, daddy. i love you and i don't think of halloween any more. all the mud has been washed from my mummy's wrappings and i still have lots of candy in my pillow-case that i could share with you.