Rüsseltier by Sensorman, Rustling in a Room

This laptop in a room, emulating the abstract thought and music of a bandcamp profile of a musician named SensormanThe house, techno disclaimers, the artwork, the links, the networks, this song called Rüsseltier, elevated in the below with my world that suits it all quite well – look out for the word groupings that denote music and sound.

When many things encroach, splutter, and cough a few times in a confined space. When summer sun is popped out of its cobbly compartment and gets swallowed whole, leaving just the silver wrapping to wrap me up warm while the windowed wind wails a few words over and over again against my lowered head. This autumn expression is coiled in revolutions, resembling 6 month long springs, now rusted orange and unnerving the sanctuary of my constant bed. This bed where I plant my hands daily to support my body weight, this bed where I dig up the ruins of previous bad dreams so that they don’t lay lurking under the bridge of my back, this bridge of my back, creaking under the strain of fingerprint moulds  and the thick crunchy morning darkness between the white sheets and the flattened moles on my skin. This room is a platform to the outside and I’m constantly waking up in the bleak noise of human hooves, sucking up golden leaf dust from the creaks in the concrete. Those elephantessimals that compile and compress the several sniffy noses of my friends into one leathery hour long disjointed trunk. Some elephant daydreams. Some tusks of a diligently disgruntled note-jotting onlooker. A crescendo of ring-bound paper, the lecture finishes and some sort of evening movement begins; this one in particular with the needly beeps of my heels and the pleasant scales of a school of bikes, lining the way home with tired yet curious speech bubbles. Always the same, somewhat circular, uncertain, but in time, in sync: where the silences always beat us to it, always define the many moments of recollection, clarity, contemplation, awkwardness, hesitation.

The meaning of silence is the intention of noise and the intentions are falling from the big trees tonight in half-warm patterns; a blear of overcoats and ivory eyes against the backdrop of nature’s post-summer mosaic, gradually dismantling, but resting like friends, amidst the dew, upon soft university grounds.

George

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