Everything you play is asynchronous and inharmonic, though it does create an ambience good as habitat for the basic emotions you express, red-eyed and expectoral.
The dishwater suds stretch white around your hands like new wool around your dry red winter skin
and how could I express my sentiments to you now, every thought is wrapped in words that won't stick, like the grit and gristle on plate and kettle that will be scrubbed clean off
and what's left set on the rack to drip as every bit of fiction from this frame of imaginary ordinary.