reniform_puls flux i feel the music sucking my eardrums, this time, though, a gentle massage. lawn mowers and propeller planes buzzing the scillia and then it breaks and fractures into a thousand pieces, which assemble themselves in webs of blue ice. this is the good shit. it's postmortem. music made by the dead, for the dead. slickly subtle knots of kinesthesia. anasthesia. and thus a new word is born. 031229 what's it to you? who go blather from