Angles between W Æ L D E R

Thoughts to have to this realisation – where you make the songs real in wherever you are pressing [play], wherever things are pressing [feel]:

You feel strong
Your skin seems thick with substantial and words
He meant it in a good way
She’s cool
It’s OK, You know where you are safe
Learning curve / calculus
Years rhymes with tears
Years seems to fall down
You love it all together like a rock
You’ve been sometimes so unreal-feeling that you find sleep a kind of isolation

The sounds that realised these thoughts in a kind of correlation, soon after you were pressing [play], when things weren’t so pressing [feel]:

When the heartbeat asks a question, the kick drum:

Can you put your wings upon me?

First like shivers the higher frequencies answer, a high hat

Can you hear yourself singing? Because it’s probably someone else.
Sifting upward through a space, like entering a stir of absent-immanent not-there gasp clasped
around a wrist,
or something: the voice tables, the feet lock

And you think you’re ready to be walking a little further, see what all that fuss might have been about

So nervous you can’t quite get the rings around the words that my head seems to be clattering between. So nervous you can’t quite hold onto a sentence long enough for you to identify where once you were coming from when you started off. So nervous you can’t quite recognise your output  for affections, misunderstood and confused fused with fear – when everything is just a diagnosis out of the corner of your mouth, where once the ink might have been made invisible: the cool silence interrupts you and before you know your nerves they have turned to endings and your endings have turned to stories about half-empty songs and suffocation.

So I’m kind of psyched to hear WÆLDER playing in the city I can see from this attached photo of a roof of a building in bespoke city in the early days of December, a kind of chronological imagination, a kind of poetry of an experience of a media, between,
perhaps, nervous,
right now I am coaxed from time a to time b and I feel something might be trying to say to me that I’m in a circuit of intrigue and tragedy: the love I’ll see soon unexpectedly when the coldness of kindness convinces me.

These songs say to me in twisting arguments of crowds of my heart’s ings singing before the winter glass draws into a huddle, quickening, perturbed, comforted, vocals like the ways in which body language is interrupted by meaning. These songs say to me in a psychosynthesis of an interview between the middle bits of the stubbornness of a few heart beats and the sharp fist of a fizz of a fluctuation of a fear that nothing could catch my head if it were to fall, vocals like the angles between my rushes to fulfill and my default to let them die away. These songs say to me like they toe to me the lines in the sheets that crumple up into unsent winter letters; that I abstract myself and then and then I hate myself and then I find myself and then I react, then I walk a little further. And then I repeat myself all over again, and, then.

I can’t think of anything more heartwarming than some hatred-like-loneliness finding me and then together becoming all exposed and embarrassed as we defy the things that were holding us back. That’s how it feels, the relationship between me the listener and today the durations, these durations: listening up, listen up!

These music muscles are all-conntaing-comforting all over the place, welcoming and always endearingly weirdly real; “good morning”, I say.

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