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Rating: I need decades — give me decades! — or even better, centuries.
I need additional, peripheral neural ganglia, installed specifically for storing cacophonies.
Thus, without all the geological ages necessary for digestion, I cannot, even through repeated re-reiterated listening, dig where others have dug. To lie quietly in the recesses of sound where others have lain, where others have suffered oblivion and ugliness. Or at least: not enough.
This unearther of unfathomable wonders, without any permission, has surely lived here before. I can feel the warmth near the sand where he lay, feel his obfuscated craftsmanship as an artisan in molding the now-abandoned materials he used.
He must have lived here for a long time, chewing on dried meat and often shitting in holes in the sand.
He must certainly have broken his nails with his frantic yet serene digging in the recesses of sound. I found some fragments, now calcified.
He must have really enjoyed himself, that maestro shaper of acousmatic crackles, in mocking the world, giving vertigo to the auricles.
Yes.
Yet today he is nothing more than a jaggedly engraved groove on a perishable medium, and the nature of the sound remains unknown to us.
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