From The Rocky Barrens

Ah, sweet delerium has begun to set in; mind running on a mild cocktail of coffee, smokes red wine, and now fatigue as it begins to quietly ebb into the psyche. High time to make a Milkcrate blog entry if I'm not mistaken. I'm fascinated by how the music flirts with lunacy quite in sync with the mind, as if the two were competing in some masochistic pagan funk-mushromm ritual. Further, and I can only speak for myself here, I think it's quite possible to become so repeatedly bombarded with your own creative aural sputum that you adopt a kind of loyalty to even the most undiscernable blarings; nuances begin to appear, little digital anomalies that speak in volumes of hidden universal equations and no-longer-paradoxes, of the soul and strange reflective surfaces that make you look ethereal. Of course, to anyone else, it's a random static pop. Not from where I'm sitting baby - Milkcrate becomes a state of mind, you see. Yes, I'd be sceptical too if I heard as such from a man who only just spent the better part of an hour strumming rubber bands stretched over a match-box, which was further fastened to an old ruler with electrical tape. And I swear that third floor hallway is haunted. I'm even spotting weird assonance patterns in my writing. Back to the static deluge!