: snow piles over night; light as down, cold as ice. Jumps from the roof in wisps of dust. Patches shoveled, patches undone. The white-out; fog and sightless, clears slowly. An hour later sunlight cracks the plaster and illuminates the untouched rolling mounds or the crumble jag of trounced upon diamond-like particles.
“We're living in a constant present tense, you can't really say what the future of music is going to be.” Bob Stanley of Saint Etienne, interviewed by Scott Plagenhoef on Pitchfork.com
Near-blind walk to city hall. A meeting in a room haunted by old smoke. A mark in the carpet where a cigarette was left burning. The international festival. Push the snow to the other side of the road. The Comas for the marinating salmon.
“We're living in a constant present tense, you can't really say what the future of music is going to be.” Bob Stanley of Saint Etienne, interviewed by Scott Plagenhoef on Pitchfork.com
Near-blind walk to city hall. A meeting in a room haunted by old smoke. A mark in the carpet where a cigarette was left burning. The international festival. Push the snow to the other side of the road. The Comas for the marinating salmon.
No comments:
Post a Comment