Cutting edge; the brinks & the beyonds
Certainly no idle digits this eve - late as it is, spiraling descent into those dark wee hours where the quiet things dwell either undisturbed or mugged for pockets of inspiration. Well past the middling evening hour, well past return from wait-table working, past half-tide & dropping of a label-less carafe; strange things are moving without evoked from disturbances within.
There be sharp implements gouging vinyl flesh deep enough for avoiding the morrow's impending inks. All too well fueled I find myself in fragments beyond lost transfixations within carving. Well, good & potent may be the hand-inked image but to loosen the flesh of virgin vinyl
matting in the image of the imagination under the influence is indeed a different animal altogether. Here forms and roams a beast unique; the firsting of a flock, the Adam's Rib if you will (or wont, though recalling the story).
Lift & till to unloosen another draft. The perceptions of depth is a dynamic animal that seems static in this birthing but fault hangs as a toothily hesitant spectre in the pneumatic flick of rippled wrist, thumb & fore-finger respectively. Waves. Again. More, again, relentless as the
tenant shadow. Waves as the organic-mechanicals of inspiron's babel fish; re-translating waves of reality from waves of thought, of memory, back into waves of reality reality through the movements behind these knives gorging deep to delight the flavours of paper it soon will impress.
I called for courses but they existed all too far into the future for this hunger, for this satiation. Tomorrow will informal instructionals begin. I need stock for my stockists.
The slumbering have awakened and lust for many things; I must appease these beasts upon demand or
suffer the woes of their demise. I have music & I have wine to see in their birthing.