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Rating: July, but who decided it, a pharmacy calendar hanging in a corner of the house? To hell with calendars.
"August is the coldest month of the year, in the other hemisphere they call it Winter"
I take a leap, to another hemisphere. Siberia, yet it's August, but August that escapes from consciousnesses slick with coconut oil.
Liquid hemisphere, digitally fresh. Siberia, non-inflatable seals.
Solitary inner freshness, sizzling from the friendly bumping of small smiling digital icebergs. Light neoclassical piano notes watch us, we are strangers but we greet, they organize a banquet of sounds. Romantic strings, piano keys.
But who says we are in July?
Light songs of sounds float on light electronics. Moments of ecstatic stillness bathed by a slight digital drip.
Melodies float off the score like light ghostly galleons, tossing us lifeboats as an invitation for a journey into a world of poetry not written in words but by simple emotions carried away by a fragrant sea breeze scented by a desirable reality.
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