Stories about our dads from the radioactive future, remembering journey from journey, pouring out water and black hole reverb over the actual electronics of going home.
Country for the barely there, folk for the bedroom age; waking in the communal living room mess of our internet. Pain and the musings of those who feel the best of human pain: unphysical, omnipresent, and truly sublime. All the old voices you wore, and callously tore, are the voices behind your voice when you tremble at the gates of really seeing. Oh Nashville of my dead livers and Nashville of the bored moon in my eyes. Oh telepathy, fill me with the nourishing voices of the billions carving canyons like water in the rock I won't be forever.
Thanks to Saint Julien for humoring my curiosities about his curiously arresting music. Get it for that next lonely night or long ride through the myriad highway tunnels leading inside to always.
If you like it... let him know: firstname.lastname@example.org