a_box_of_fire raze the music of my youth is breathing without making a sound, half-hidden in an open envelope on the floor of a room that's no longer mine. polystyrene hugged by air pockets. ink on polished pages. spin coated glaze. pitted promises, kept and unkempt. i struggle to call back the soul of a song named for a city in eastern pennsylvania and crawl into a cupboard that doubles as an incinerator, unsure if i'm food or fuel for this cramped but comfortable furnace. 250608 what's it to you? who go blather from