the_wood_bunch raze there's a reimagined recording of this song from a few years back. it's in a different key. benoit burello plays electric guitar instead of piano. there's no band. i can understand at least half of what he's singing. there's something about clustered romance and watching clouds go by. he sings, "the trembling pitch of your voice," and it sounds like he's singing "peach". not "pitch". and that feels right. every voice should be a stone_fruit you kiss to feel its fuzz against your face. the rest of it is all wrong. this is a man who sings like he's never raised his voice in his life. on those first two bed albums, every word his accent mists away from meaning is a sleepy benediction. a patchwork of sounds that don't belong to a language built by this empire or any other. the piano and upright bass sound like they're right there in the room with you. you can touch the space between each note. soft brushed drums are footsteps on a carpet of leaves. clean electric guitar conducts a private conversation with itself, tracing out bittersweet countermelodies. some strange synthesizer burbles in the background. i don't know what he's saying, but i know it's true. we can sail in quicksand and carbon, kissing chroma. like everything that matters, it lasts just long enough, and it's over too soon. 220227 what's it to you? who go blather from