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A whisper, a rustle. A low-frequency white noise canvas that captures crystalline and defenseless pulses.
Chewed over and suspended. Small unresolved traumas knit neurons like low-voltage electroshock, and while images suffocate among the coils of austere minimalism, fingers observe the creases of the pillow and eyes scratch the cracks along the walls.
Like caresses of a time distorted by memory, like today's kisses corrupted by disillusionment, the brackish foam of an anxious musique concrète continuously presses beneath the surface the head of sweeter counterpoints struggling to emerge.
An inner search that stumbles over its own sense, microscopic oscillations unravel what moments ago they had composed, Chartier like Penelope weaves and unweaves the fabric of sound.
Eyes widen and cracks expand, Michael Northam's tentacularity is reduced to splinters and dried by his passions, the crescendo of a floating drone plunges us into a boiling black whirlpool where every thought is asleep, or rather…
A quiver, a throb. A spectral stillness where blurred reverberations grope the soft cartilage of minutes.
Everything is said, everything done, an electronic calm flattens the sails and planes the waves. No development, no evolution.
Tied to the stake of the verb to be, we listen safely to a stagnant enchantment that neither begins nor ends, Chartier like a Siren clutters thoughts with the breath of micro-variations perhaps only imagined.
We remain: alone, motionless, and weightless. The dense nothingness of Roach's "Magnificent Void" becomes earthy, concise, stripped of any cosmic connection.
It's the void of a Sunday morning spent on the couch staring at the ceiling, a human, relative, transitory void, where the rush of Monday is distant, or rather…
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