Shit truly be born when souls wail off their shackles and colour the ether with desire. Like acorns and oaks, guys, girls and guitars water the silent whispers passing under our mind's jabber and breed flamboyant proclamations of that lubricious vigour hiding in the hearts of anyone willing to 'walk the line'. 3am, Alice Ave, you, me and another dram of single malt whiskey. A sideways grin, capo on 3rd. We all know what's next. Brothers and sisters are born there. Shit truly be born.
Our hootenanny winks at the congregation of howlin' spirits who've daubed the air we breathe in euphonious carnivals for as long as forever feels... and, if you listen hard, just a touch prior. It's now and a then each way, baby.
Harmonies conjoin time and space, but in a universe emerging bodies of more than flesh alone, someone's gotta decorate the wires. So, my friends, why don't we renovate this dry network binding us with memories of our finger pick'n good times? You know, posterity could be a lot prettier, wouldn't you say? Why don't yer park that posterior on the Porch of Networked Civilisation and let's you and I busk our days away. Yeeeee haaaaaw!
Luke F
9.08pm, 7 March 2009.
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