[Make word-for-word post of the following, except section beneath dash mark. I already well-edited, girl. Actually, consider including section below dash as well.]
First gasp of synesthesia: you are feeling the sound crawling into your ear canals like a little tentacle off an anemone's friend, like an icicle, (like a Centaurian slug), like the only time this has ever happened before. Is it the beating of your heart reflected into the mind? I want to believe, I want to believe it is the vibrations of the hairs reverberating like guitar strings through your smooth-curved body parts, ringing-fading until you reach gently to silence them against your skin.
Boy, never quite friends, learn to play not because you will display the technical skill of the greater masters; play because your heart is nearly in between it. Play because we are marshmallowed into the same sheets, and my ears clutched with the dulling— but your fingers warmed closer to the fire. You gotta make it catch, let it heat up, keep it crunchy, and smash it sweetly to the boards.
Sweet, do you believe this? This is a metaphor about music, sex, and guitar pickin' roastin' s'mores. I should have resolved to tell you like it is (but deliciously subtle, may have to make do): what I am really here to do for you is fidget my cells in the accidental production of periwinkle light. Light like that is the true light of the universal beings, and all of us but little algorithms employed in its provision.
You are discovering what you are truly good at, girl: you write. you are sound-feeling because you are (bang!) sound to the ground with all the force of gravity behind you. Take this so new-found undiscovered and quick, erase the truth!
"Can't Stand It" with Andrew Bird is fantastic. Jesus Christ, thank you Jeff Tweedy for making this be. The city blinks because its eyes open and shut of insomnia! You texted MC P: "Forget anything I might have said about it: you are completely right about how good 'Impossible Germany' is." Put it to the test, though you have no options in the discovery: maybe the loosening of the melodies is what it takes to harmonize at last.
He says that no other song is as good, then, but you say, "This is not true. I will show you." and you'd like to make it "with all my heart", all your heart in these sounds spread so wild like the brown-rice paddies of the post-apocalyptic Midwest, the great arched-roof palaces of Chicago and Saint-Louis and Chicago and Saint-Louis and Chicago rising to rule the land as once did the calls for price and demand. (And that is the last warm-blooded description of Wilco you will ever hear from me.)
How does ringing of "Impossible Germany" compare to characteristic ringing of U2? Ask Mikey, compare, think about it.
Frozen-marshmellow-topping lollypops? Oh my goodness, try it.
Partial fragments of warm-afternoon words in the notepad of your phone. Post them.
Mmmmm.
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