NOTE: I sketched this some years back, essentially writing what came to me as I listened to a piece of improv from one of my favorite bands, Phish (a rather elegant candle-lit ambient “After Midnight” jam from their Big Cypress festival). This is what I “saw” upon deep listening, and so, I sketched that scene. I should note that I’ve posted this in some form on previous incarnations of my blog/site, and I felt now was a good time to resurrect it.
Flickerlight in glass while the black backdrop fades into poor visibility. Mad scientist at the keys, bald head except for the sides, a man in front weaves six threads along a stitched thin neckboard and the flickerlight continues. Oh, they dance along to the midnight rhythms that hint at something, something’s at play, yes yes, there’s no one here to watch, they see all but none see them, and the speckled cotton shirt comforts the front man’s skin as it protects him from chafe, then to the left, another, mushroom-haired one jerks his head about along with the flickers, his fingers pop along thicker weaves, and only five threads for him, and he stands still, but the first, the six-thread weaver isn’t weaving anymore . . . he’s writing, using a short thin pen, flat and ink-less, but he’s writing nonetheless, the words printed in the void, the pageless page.
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