Filling every cast of the veranda, bending every branch toward a smile, her voice greets the entrance of night. The drapes luff…
…the winding, narrow-terraced streets of Alger la Blanche idle beyond the window, a muted bloom. If not for this curtain’s dancing, that exquisite hum tracing the hillside, he thought, we’d be adrift in the middle of the Mediterranean.
And with another lapse of heavy lids: they are an island, untucked, reclining at sea… until the dawn converges.
It appears, based on this nocturnal battle cry (in the great pop gravity wars), that Ricky Eat Acid is not coming down, at least not for these nine minutes; he’d rather free-float in the darkness of nothing, as if still holding those balloons first seen over a year ago, now well past the atmosphere, on a slow, dial-toned course, further away:
Sam posted the track to bandcamp in the wee hours of last night, complete with handmade artwork and a space-punk manifesto.