Stillborn rivers, leaky mires

Well, I have never seen such a terrible room

Gilded with the gold teeth of the women who loved you

The quote's room incites a personal moment of ill hubris. Its wavelength becomes accessible every now and then on this cozy regio of mine that, in the end, doesn't have all that many different layers. Yet it contains some that activate under the golems of new moons – animated new moons that inevitably return. The hissing mythagos ignite into the pale light of consummation; they flare, flicker, sigh and wane. I glare down at the mystery play and watch the trigger go off repeatedly in a cinematographic sequence. In disjunct stages, the regio expands into a vertical village of stone columns, the regio collapses into a fragment; a faded blueprint of all the designs that were, scattered teeth of varying ages. The room slowly turns the great wheel toward its very own seasonal summer and beyond.

(image: a snapshot; lyrics: Joanna Newsom, Go Long)

The flutter of hope and desperation

Spiritual intoxication and such crispness of mind! One hour and a half wasn't enough to dash, dodge and squirm my menacingly trim legs sore, but my shirt undoubtedly got wet – both from everyone's sweat and from the beer of a stranger. Urg. Oh, those strangers.

Crystal Castles, with Ladytron, epitomises what the allure of electronica means to dancing. The melancholy soundscape laced with a fracture of trashy hope shares the basic passion of (all?) science fiction writing or the Ocean loader music by Jonathan Dunn: humanity alone at the edge of unstable and isolated worlds, the frontiers of which can often only be pushed further at the cost of the little one already has.