milky raze say his name. not as it is, but as you want it to be. change_one_letter and make him something he's never been. the man is one hundred and seven years old. he doesn't look a day over sixty. strip starving insects from a slice of pizza he couldn't bring himself to eat or throw away. read the stack of handwritten pages he gives you. this is all he's seen and said in a century or so of moving through the world. unfinished. unclear. years that disappear before they can claim what's theirs. sentences that stagger and slip and trip over themselves on their way to the finish line. you feel the heat he gave to a couch cushion and wonder if what you're looking at now is the last of him. in a recording studio halfway across town, four horn players improvise harmonies over a two-chord vamp. half a dozen singers occupy a soundproof booth, each with their own microphone. two men are featureless and white. one of them sings: "me, i've been belly-up. it's where i've grown so long." this is what happens when you lack the strength to stand. 250715 what's it to you? who go blather from