iceberg ovenbird She is on the brink of a breakthrough when a large chunk of her cognition calves and floats away. Now she sit in the ruins of potential surrounded by notebooks and boxes and equipment with functions she can no longer fathom. She touches each tool and finds they are artifacts from a past that holds no meaning. Her entire life fits inside a suitcase meant for a record player. She closes the lid, closes the latch, closes her eyes. Her mind is locked away somewhere and no one will know her name. There is no music. 250714 what's it to you? who go blather from