This material came from a place devoid of aspiration, looking up through the cracks in the asphalt never reaching for sunlight and always petrified. By chance and with no effort, it aligned with my ethos and washed up on my desk almost fully formed.
It’s the sound of street cars fighting the descents of the Oslo Bowl, heavy machinery settling after a day of strain, infants across the street never asleep and leaf blowers degritting the street at night. It’s the sound of an incomplete transition, uninterrupted eroding of enamel and anxiety putting pressure on the jawbone.