Listening (had there been any one to listen) from the upper rooms of the empty house only gigantic chaos streaked with lightning could have been heard tumbling and tossing, as the winds and waves disported themselves like the amorphous bulks of leviathans whose brows are pierced by no light of reason, and mounted one on top of another, and lunged and plunged in the darkness or the daylight (for night and day, month and year ran shapelessly together) in idiot games, until it seemed as if the universe were battling and tumbling, in brute confusion and wanton lust aimlessly by itself.
To The Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf
It is already not quite there, its lines blurred by the hesitation of the voice delivering it; it seems to flicker in and out of existence, as the artist draws, then erases, then recolors, then smudges his sketch...
The Soft Machine - David Porush
released November 18, 2016
recorded late spring - early summer 2016
east somerville, ma
all rights reserved