An airplane takes off, sampled/resampled each time his closet door opens. Tiny pins, millions of them, vibrating in an eternal flush of wing, acoustic repetition electric sensation, the catharsis of take-off rendered, packaged only in the sense that the scraped bare antelope in you ricochets with a scraped thump off walls, rather than plummeting into a velvet long(est) vacuum. The skin of our sound is peeled in melancholy layers, raw panic contained within melancholy the way our sampled flight is contained within these four walls.
We begin to gain control, learn sustainment within panicked containment, sustenance within sound skin scraped bare. We learn to deliver our pain, moderate our thirst, filter our panic through electric hair-raised spoonfuls of human meat, of dulled-grief repeat collision, of melancholy series of deflected trajectory.
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