waveform raze these coral cliffs mark the place where we once stood, twisting childhood and the early bloom of adolescence into an unfinished liederkreis. i ride the busy stabs of sound. the space between each transient cuts a groove good enough to form a solid foothold. the peaks are never as loud as i want them to be. it should be your_voice at the end of everything. it should be your_face i see, flushed with the spreading sting of outsole after your sister swings a broken white stiletto, held by the heel, and tattoos your face with a poem you need a mirror to read. but you're lost in a haze of tape hiss and bad keyboard presets, and there are no ghosts haunting this basement bedroom. not yours. not mine. not anyone's. 220415 what's it to you? who go blather from