Religious Knives
Remains

Among the many, too many doubts that trouble my days, there is, indeed, one certainty that always stands on the horizon: a blowjob (well done) is one of the few, very few pleasures in life without contraindications.

And I thank my god (whoever that is and wherever they are) for giving me the wisdom to crumble the smoke and mix it with the straw of my synapses.

Not forgetting the God of my god (the divine Chance) who sometimes dispenses particularly pleasing gifts: a morning entirely dedicated to myself.

There is nothing in this record that you haven't heard before.

Warm loops, organ variations of the Spacemen 3's psychic rituals from "Dreamweapon" are first spotted with frantic tribalism and then with gothic martial cadences.

Sick stasis. Murky electrostatic pools where the circular guitarism of a Roy Montgomery supports the aerial vocal twists of an Elizabeth Fraser in the grip of veins on the brink of glitch.

A starry sky, a Siamese twin to that "Bismillahi 'Rrahman 'Rrahim" that ennobled the splendid "The Pavilion of Dreams" by Harold Budd gradually gives way to doorsian reminiscences: a divertissement between a fully controlled Manzarek and a narcoleptic Morrison, drained of all skills as the consummate actor he was.

But all these are considerations ex post because, in the meantime, I simply enjoyed: the sound had caught me.

A record (well done) is one of the few, very few pleasures in life without contraindications.

Anyway, a blowjob is better.