plinth flux equinox party.. word games, puzzles, hitchcock. running on days little sleep and sore muscles, held together by caffeine and starches. partying hardy. after it ended, walked down to spazport for the tail end of the anarchist cafe event. ran into tiger. danced around in free space, and smiled. shit. it's a good time to be alive. 040919 ... ovenbird A man who is a photo copy of my father rifles through records looking for the one that will restore his memories. He is frenzied and desperate, slamming vinyl down onto the platter, throwing the stylus towards the spinning grooves, then, when the music fails him, ripping the albums away, producing a tearing scream as the needle scrapes across the surface. He throws everything into a discard pile, a growing cairn of music that refuses to bring his past into focus. These songs, it seems, have roots in every life but his. And so he stands upon the plinth, one more marble bust in the hall of the forgotten. 251120 what's it to you? who go blather from