pivot raze we weave our way inside when the electricity cuts out. my grandfather's house on my mother's side. in the living room, two string players struggle to simulate the sound of a full orchestra, their movements made harsh by the soft purr of power restored. a singer smears all i strain to hear. dancers on folding chairs bend like slow vines sick at heart. i play a piano that exists only in my mind. nothing but strange shapes and awkward runs that make a cruel kind of harmonic sense. i press my weaker wing into the back of the nearest rooted coryphée and guide her into some subtle shift away from what was planned. a line is repeated. something about a beginning. or an ending. it doesn't matter which. 250306 what's it to you? who go blather from