I am awake again. And so I am writing; locating myself within fields. I see myself, but darkly. I read. Thinkers inadvertently forming structures by describing qualities. I am thinking about sonics.

I am reading into myself so that I may read the world. I am thinking about Elli{ngt|s}on. Each using polyphony to detail experience. This is my hidden tradition.

Hands, boards, bows, sheets, sticks, runes, cords, mallets. Forks, bolts, tape; I know not to use all I know. This has been a hard lesson.

A = 439.82Hz. I hear it as true enough

Each transgression dies again on the surface. I strike and scrape and press my wounds to death. Like Hutcherson, my mouth, once clenched, opens.

Each strike urges me to survive. The higher harmonics elicit fear. And yet I move in the middle of it, making my heart jump. Is this really the act of the body?

Ella Fitzgerald.

I remember that I have heard the whining of lights for most of my life.

The interior is as noisy as the exterior. The mouth mediates