[TITLE] written while listening to Zushi by Dean Blunt

[TITLE]

written while listening to Zushi by Dean Blunt

Something pulsates me awake. A mystical telling on the cliff of wisdom. Spiritual vision. Acoustic teeth. Hear this story. Here, this story. I left a voicemail with a cough on it. I talk to you about hearts until we start calling around.

Let me freak you out. Let me haunt you with more boxes. Haunt the boxes. Singing brings treatment. Acoustic toothaches. She healed her teeth by wrapping a bandage around her head like ancient days. Vintage advice tries to remain modern to the modern we no longer need.

Like antique diseases had come back to kill. Cinematic lullabies. We cry at the theater. We die in the lot reflecting on what we saw. I'm sad in the back part of the art gallery.

I'm gathering my memories in my backpack and I'm leaving the lobby for good. The look on your face when you explain the song to god and to your parents. The language is cryptic, intentional snippets dished into the winter sky.

Why do we insist strings are cinematic? Why do we associate reeds with theater? Strings with elegance? A spectacle, a flaunt.

We're at the bottom of a well. There's a stage here. There's a band. They're playing their guitars, they're harmonizing with the echoes of themselves, they're using the well to perpetuate their spacious tones. They're using the world beneath them to thrive. We are not invited but we are not turned away.

Jazz and bombs collide on song five and ten. Desert Storm is a jazz bomb. It feels like visiting the 90s era where grunge was in love with junkies and glitz. Disco ball fallen and cracked, where a group of men huddle around it and paint it in shades of their baby blankets.

Is it important to talk about rain or to just watch the rain and already know what it means? Does it mean anything if we stop talking for a moment for an autumn and watch and listen to the glistening rain?

Pluck the love from the wonder of the symphony. It's nearly time to end the end of the story.

It's time for the piano to settle its energy and quiet the children huddled around the water fountain. The garden is on fire for the time being. Please come back next season.

She echoes away from me and closes the curtain, rolls up the red carpet, departs out the emergency exit, barrel rolls into the limo never to be seen again singing through the sun roof, preferring to call it the moon roof. You decide, she sings, singing and singing, fading into the fog.

The song is over. The album is done. The moment has become a moment. The album an experience. Hearing this for the first time. It's like trying something new. It's like learning the language of the ancients but not playing it until now.