Quarter to three. Feedback. Drumbeats. Broken heads, hearts, hands. I know that I will never find the right sound and yet I try, I seek it, I explore it, I become the me that I am not. Automatic me. The robot. Numbers swirl in my head and I try and add it up and it all ends up never matching. No map works. The atlas is folded against my emergency brake but it will never take me to what I want to hear. Cover bands try and fail and fall away. The bass isn't the same, the handclaps aren't there. I'm a rock vet on the wings and ribs festival circuit trying to chase dragons and place lightning into bottles. Fireflies get stuck in my hair and beard and my face glows, positively, with luminescent incandescent failure.

Photo - S
Words - S