Drums, ah sweet mechanism. Drums draped with the echo of a empty space of indeterminate dimensions. These drums cross a steam hissing stamping machine and a hanging garden. A round yet hollow bass pulse like a bad one behind the eyes, like the thud of blood. The corporal thud is threatened by guitar that fixes cars in a shower of sparks. A room somewhere, on foreign soil, where aching lovers toil. I know they call, but really they toil. The calling is the phoned in performance, not really there. The playing echoes that vocal performance, becalmed uncannily on barbituate island. The bones of a pop song, the words from a bergman movie, the sense of mechanistic alienation. But of course now we’re used to it. We may be alienated but we’re lovin it.
  ¶ 6:08 pm