Short transmissions.
Sometimes news.
Sometimes unfinished thoughts written between recordings.
Sometimes only a note left beside the coffee cup before morning.
A box of old tapes was found behind the last apartment door. Some were unmarked. Some carried only rain, room tone, and the sound of someone trying not to disappear completely.
read transmission →The recordings are available now. Some of them survived the first winters intact. Some only survived in fragments.
read transmission →I thought silence would feel cleaner than this. It didn't.
read transmission →No disappearance. Only distance. The apartment is still here. The machines are still running.
read transmission →I am not promoting it. It is there if you need it.
read transmission →The recordings no longer feel like evidence. That might be progress. Or exhaustion.
read transmission →I am not playing live this year. I cannot explain it correctly without making it sound dramatic.
read transmission →The apartment remains awake longer than I do. The radiator sounds almost human during rain.
read transmission →Rain outside SO36. Someone laughing near the microphone. I don't remember who.
read transmission →Not emotionally. Only physically. Lower volumes. More static. Longer spaces between words.
read transmission →I kept rebuilding it instead. Wrong colors. Wrong atmosphere. Everything looked too clean. Too awake.
read transmission →end of current transmission window
The city kept carrying me forward.