piezo raze i had such high hopes for us. i wanted to write something incredible for her to sing. but the right song took a while to find. and by the time i thought i had it, she was unreachable. i still have this tune she sent me ten years ago sitting in my inbox. she recorded it on her own at home. "you'll probably be the third human to ever hear it," she wrote. "but it was a hit with all the non-humans around." this_then is what i'm left with: two plugged-in acoustic guitars. headphone bleed pumping the ghost of a click track into her vocal mic. a voice in constant dialogue with itself. "i've got this hurricane in my pocket," she sings. "there ain't no medicine that's gonna stop it. we are not scientists. we're not prophets. we're in the fever with no time to process." there's no chorus. the coda is an arched bridge that's more than half the meat of the whole thing. the rhythm doubles. the words lose their shape. the mantra she settles on sounds_like, "we are true_blue, my friend. we are so cold. we are so." and maybe that's all there is to know. we_are so. 250118 what's it to you? who go blather from