living_room raze after flames lick all your family photographs and devour every piece of paper you made your mark on, you sit down and self-produce an album for your ears alone, recorded on a reel of magnetic tape time hasn't yet turned to dust. twelve tracks of you alone in your living room playing twelve-string acoustic guitar and an out-of-tune upright piano. spitting out the sadness and sediment of your days without another soul around to hear you sigh. when the words run out, you stand and strike the blinds that bully the nearest window into blocking out the light with thin metal wires fastened to a wooden wand. your mother calls you on the phone while the tape is still running. this too is its own kind of music. you make a marimba of a scuffed coffee_table and gather currency to cover the cost of the tracks you need to cross to outrun the hounds snapping at your heels. you'll be dead before you get out the door. but when you sing, you soar. 251216 what's it to you? who go blather from