A sound laboratory designed to minimize sound reflections as well as external noise through physical isolation of the structure; elaborate filters in the ventilating ducts; and thick masonry walls which function to simulate the acoustical conditions of unobstructed, free space.

Monday, September 14, 2009


You will also, on occasion– leave off where you first began. Like a watch's weaker hand, we illustrate uncertainty...

Whether storming, or escaping, any home we know not how to address: a vacant museum, the cusp of an hourglass

An unspoken natural law: Only in censored footage do we note silence, do we note polarity. (The color of musing.

The chroma of hurry.) On the fifth and seventh floor: the tenants: pouring into boxes possessions they don't want

To be remembered for. If one is just as protective of his compass as the other, his knife: we say the two harmonize.

At any given crisis: any given prophet may unknowingly discard the ability to reconsider... "Often, before the first

Raindrops explode into hypnotic clockwork; after love has been made, and made, and couldn't hold itself together–"

The narrator whispered, I forget which key you said never to use. An estimated eighty letters were lost in the move...

Backstage Pass

There are faces within our fables—forever cloaked by a childlike desire to replicate—Major events: a chord

progression. A romantic phrase found in (and altered by) the five main variants of Venetian language—each

rigged to capture: Your inevitable heartbreak / My potential closure—a dialectic loop whose every turn is said

to shed its own theory on the makings of a star; but if you've heard one, you've been seduced by them all…

After dusk (after dusk) are echoes—of an age in which each step taken invoked an embellished sense

of terror, and wonder was reserved for watching—a hidden network of blue rivers / turn red at the skin. See,

"the singed edges of the continent you resemble most" is the closest we've come to describing our loss

and consequential lack of internal conflict; of a Supernatural Commentator to say the magic words (to enter

an abandoned story) go like this. And thus, on special occasions the speaker will conclude that a mine is not self-

sustaining; but merely works—through the land: an image that lends itself to the image of a sky, set to repeat

behind improvised fire / a working constellation for the Midsummer patriotic. A display—

sentenced to life-long endearment by its aging viewer: periodically aroused, long after the chemicals settle.

We've developed a system that should amplify only those sleep states the Sun cannot disturb. The ebb

and potential flow in your cerebral cortex—reminiscence—has no basis. Your decorative efforts, once thought

to prevent fond memories or further disrepair (the placement of plastic cartridges / limbs) stand on nothing

but phobias / underlying beliefs. (Say black genealogy.) Evidence supports the occurrence of invisible blinds—

a seamless series of suffering: running parallel to the outside world / leading us to dream a drawstring just waits

to be found— (point to your homeland's latitude and say longevity) a simple convention rattling

like a cheap guitar against our globe's tectonic walls—and the minds that inhabit it—are pulled

under the assumption, similar to those unique to musicians: The world will stop the glass will shatter the moment

I open my mouth. Or from the windows of babes: be careful how long you wish for (lest the light spill out—)