raven_and_soul_on_ice raze we manipulate buttons on a hi-fi system no sound has ever passed through, ratcheting up the silence past the point of reason, trying to prove things like virtue and remorse are still quantifiable in a world that values nothing. we summon deities in human form, still clothed from their afternoon sleep. they assess the shelves that hold all we know and all we've ever hoped to become, each square an unfinished universe of frantic sentiment. but these men aren't interested in our stories. they'd rather tell their own. a man with an emperor's name repeats his grandmother's words. "raven and soul on ice," he says. eight hundred years ago, he manipulated her voice into what he thought was art. he doesn't understand that the painting was finished before he moved a muscle. there was a time when an old woman's plainspoken poetry held more music for the eyes than anything your eager hands could build. i want to tell him that. i want to tell him what was true then is still true now. just listen. 220129 what's it to you? who go blather from