Hey all, while we are on the music bend, here's something for you:
TAlvin Singh's Traveller, it's pretty darn cool. For the nights when you are waffling between drinking spice wine or slicing through the veils of rain. I prefer the latter. Make sure there's enough neon to add abit of Hue. It's the passing of the ghosts, where the shadows pull you out into the cold:

It's colder in winter, the steel shrinks every step of the way, it feels fluid tho' I don't know how, and the grey swims everywhich way

I don't remember the instant before, and the moment after, it's all one marble fugue of misty limbo
and you walk through it all.
or slice.
I slice, steps denote a rhythmn that I don't have, I move in the rippling out
spheres of movement
and the aureole of back spatter from the rain

who said beauty has to be summery?
beauty is also cold, is also bitter, is also the sluiced silver in slivers
of needle rain

who needs a hair-shirt, the rain
exquisite argent arrows falling on me, like some postmodern saint dying for my lack of faith
or from just too much of it
sounds Karmic
I don't know volitions
just flowing as the eddies move me through space and time, and possibilities and probabilities.
Sadness is eloquent, like despair,
it is the languorous body exposed in all its weakness and cicatrices
each scar a liberetto, a libre-mark on a symphony of parts
the thrumming of the heart, the piping of the lungs, the lips part like a curtain, and the ears resound like seashells

just a body
nothing more
shrouded in the neon green
night
night
night