continuous raze you're sure someone's listening to new age music on their phone until you see a middle-aged man sitting on a park bench with a drone flute in his hands. you stop. listen to him play minor-key melodies that are too sweet to be sad. he's mastered the art of breathing in through his nose while filling the pockets of his mouth with air, coaxing a continuous stream of sound from battered bronchi and pleura. he tells you the instrument is tuned to the pentatonic scale. he points out the place where the wood was struck by lightning when it was the short arm of a long tree. softwood. western red cedar. he and his wife nursed for forty years until the job wore them down. now they make music. she's a harpist. they're recording an album with a friend. there's no timetable. he says it'll get done someday. the skin beneath his tie-dyed shirt is a map of ink your mind can't follow. his eyes are hidden behind blue tinted shades. but his smile lets you stare into his soul. he asks if he can play you one more song before you go. it doesn't have a name. it just is. 230912 what's it to you? who go blather from