How It Is Imagined

My friend in London showed me pictures of the place where this band is from, and it looked much the same as it was imagined.

And I found an unfinished scrap of writing I didn’t quite understand on my laptop just now, something I wrote and sent to myself on the social media, it looks much the same as I imagined.

The song revolves around the lyrics “Tell me how it is” and it’s sung in relaxed fashion against a relaxed style of rock. It relaxes me, and the more relaxed I am, the more scary words go in, and I find myself following its trail to distant land, the other side of America, so perhaps the same might happen for you if I show you the door:

It’s funny you’ve arrived at this time actually because we were just this minute approaching ship-shape for a voyage into the open sea. So I hope you have your sea legs fitted. I’m not really one for talking, so I hope you don’t mind if this voyage sits quietly with you. We will find ourselves in Tokyo, where I hear they have beautiful voices and tidy faces. I was shown once a scroll of log belonging to a shipman of the Far East. A scroll in which he reminisced of chance-observing a performance near the cranes of the Japanese capital; he witnessed an unforgettable compliment to the large fading suns, and spoke of a voice with the sound of multi-coloured glaciers, of a billion water droplets lit up in purple planetary cycles, he scrawled in the margins a sketch, a sketch of the most gigantic beautiful tree, he marked blossom with tiny yet perfectly joined circles. The tree, he annotated, symbolised the magnificence of his emotions, the constant resurgence of his appreciation for the performance he discovered by the cranes of Tokyo. The shipman made little sense, expressed himself opaquely, but one could derive the nature of his excitement in the way he flicked a nervous flourish to each y and g and j and f contained within his hurried jots, his long words and elegant endings. Look at me, I have become distracted by my own delivery, please come in, we will trade feelings in our heads and sail our souls to the other on the stoney banks of

When you wake up, it’s the fourth track, “Electric Stars”, is playing, and merely visible is some kind of dream substance of layers of different ipsules and opsules, making up the glittering fever of someone’s head, far away from shit town. Far away in the “I’d be happy anywhere” mentality, some trip involving a person and a person and a road in the sky. It becomes clear. The rock from the past track, slowed down into palm-pocket sized bloops, and the guy’s voice canters large strides across the long dewy milky way grass.

Chequered flag.

Check out the band and click them a message saying “good going”.

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