Tracking Home

That liitle bit further in. Forget time. It evades you. Lost between six strings. Plucking through it. Bound in rhythm and sway and shuffle. This explodes. It rocks against one and another. The desk. The shake. The good the best. The fitting together. Just dont fight it. A good lead. Deep inside the black again. Deep inside the box. Everything is right where it shiuld be. 

Phased Signal

The jam was heavy. The words just sat inside rubbing the edges and creating dimples on the surface. 

Sometimes they would come up to breath in long arcing flows cutting through the light atmosphere before ploughing gently into the surface. Into nothing. 

The runs and configurations masterful and composed. Dancing in a gentle wave, undulating rhythms to and fro. The eye dragged here and that. 

Every so often a loud groan lost in the sound. A reaction to a killer bite or bend. The flicks at a rhythm that is hard to land on purpose. Lost in a barely bopping sea of brains. 

No doubt they dug it. How could you not? But the whispers engage on a subterranean level. Eyes get heavy. The beat gets in you. And the soul is rocked into a deep restfull phase. 

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