WE ARE TRAPPED IN A BASEMENT.
We are under the floor and above the stones. There is a damp space there, full of spiders and mold and dust, between the bright place where all the living occurs and the wet, black dirt where we shove our arms through holes, grip tight, and scream our tones. It is in this damp cave that we build our song and it swirls around the room scraping the walls, and it carries with it fourteen years of familiarity and effort, sweat and bruise.
Our song is a rope. Each ...
WE ARE TRAPPED IN A BASEMENT.
We are under the floor and above the stones. There is a damp space there, full of spiders and mold and dust, between the bright place where all the living occurs and the wet, black dirt where we shove our arms through holes, grip tight, and scream our tones. It is in this damp cave that we build our song and it swirls around the room scraping the walls, and it carries with it fourteen years of familiarity and effort, sweat and bruise.
Our song is a rope. Each strand bound tight and close, braided one to the other and twisted for grip. Wrapped over and over, each on top of the last, making one dense golden line.It has bound us to each other, back to back, four into one. This rope is for escape throws.
We are reclusive and stubborn. We are trapped in a basement, making hours of sound. Our testament is unplanned and desperate and loud. We swell in confinement until we leak through the walls. We replace the air with warm,red static. We vibrate the ground.
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