Night and day he wakes sponges down and changes paper undergarments; tweaks the custom app some more. Then vomiting dreams wounded undead animals.
His oncologist, said NuCas proteins are blind to the fast mutants. A rhythm more sophisticated than an official treatment is coming back from who knows where.
The Thing has become too real and a public health issue.
In a head spin, he pushes the window, settles, breathing too long expert in the art of falling. He is his own dedicated pornographer. Something hoped to be heard, fearing it is too late not to be. He sinks in red silk.
In FM synthesis the “modulator” wave displaces the frequency of the “carrier” by a value proportionate to its amplitude over a period determined by its frequency.
The modulator skews the frequency of the carrier with complex harmonics and inharmonics. Typically, modulator and carrier are sines, pure tones. Here the raw is from a bell Obertura, recorded in the Lost Country …. This means opening in the forgotten language of her people. As you hear, deprived of its onset, sampled and time-stretched forever.
The mod: former inhabitant. You have seen the videos. Rosa in an ugly room, with her chair, a chamber pot and a few modest devices. The occasional peeled dancer pirouettes sleek and wet as when he shudders. She talks to the fourth wall people. Is she answered or rebuffed? We see here an effect perhaps of our excessive “control” as you like to put it. We are still trying to come to terms with it.
Daddy box corpses as contrast head accentuates and flickers. Her world is nuanced. Unlike the dancers, she has skin. It is marbled with ferrous contusions. She screams through the bell – a soul in unending ice.
She wants Daddy make her pure. Rustle through layers of distortion. Remove mid-range filters. The voice is abstract, second order. Patterns all the way.
But it has often been stated – in the most ringing terms – we are nothings. What can that mean? The negation is asinine.
The keening has the right insistence and familiarity. A particular thing, like an antique mirror fracturing in a darkened room at midday. You hear her long pain-slut roar, granulated silence, final heat-duct memory.