I’m listening again right now to Guilty, a new song, a new exploration of house released and uploaded (21 days ago) by an astonishingly hard-hitting, brilliantly-named electronic music wizard of London, Ross From Friends. And I’m scouring with my mind, scouring all negative indents of recent times, those times reflected vaguely in memory, and I’m letting the song smooth over these indents, easing smoothing process, dreaming me, me dreaming.  It mends well, very well, how well? Yes, infinitely well. Well?

One memory, one mending:

I’ve got so much air in my brain, brittle-feeling air, air that tastes of question. I got so much pessimistic question in my brain. And my head floats around, super drunk, eyes jerking slowly, burdened by ideas that feel horrible and weird and weightless.  I’ve got so much blinding brightness in my brain, each moment collecting reflected glints, noticed on every eyelash on every eye possessed by friends around me. Hold something, -conscious checkpoint- , hold something, perhaps a feeling, identify its self, identify myself. And don’t fall into a spiral of explorational yet diverging paths of thought. Move my head to my heartbeat, not my heartbeat to my head. My head is super-drunk with coiled-up emotion. So sit down, stop listening to people like that, stop looking at people like that, stop saying things like that. It’s not all bad? I’m not as enclosed as I think, not as fucked as I feel… Sit down on that armchair and let my senses recoil into lovely mess, loving mess, loving mess of people, faces, words, movements. Oh, the pounding that this song reflects, reminds me, reminds me to a house, a good house, so good, recurring like that heartbeat, steady footsteps, nodding approvals, massage repeatings, all in my direction. Profound yet simple rhythms in the most complicated late night light-lit humanscape. Beating evolving steady rhythm complimented by the surreally moving, eery sequences of chord, constricted voice, distant female song passing by, in and out, close and away, whirring ambiences she cries into, synthetics, bass so fundamentally grounded in all the noise, hard-hitting. Song takes over head. Song towers over continuously. Hits head, pounds head around in a commotion, feels like I, in my armchair, am perhaps nearing something like a heart.

Download Guilty exclusively over at Back The Too Future

, George

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