Smoke Six

After testing that the thermal pulse has also been connected, I affix our little coffee exploder to the burner, and very soon I’m sipping the speedy brown stuff, looking at the boxes on the door/table in the loungeroom, their wooden surfaces slightly sprayed by spacedust. I’ve forgotten to buy sugar, but I’m enjoying the bitterness of the coffee anyway, its caffeine undercurrent slowly increasing as I sit there, by the empty burner space, scrolling through downloads on our reader, searching for a wire, interconnection. Signals missing, like airport arrivals boards, flickering in the irradiated impact of your Avalon departure. Deep rain impact as I scramble three short notepad macros, one to you, another to me and the third to, simply, us. I let the battery burn low, thinking of the cover of Daydream Nation, Richter’s burning candle melting down to nothing. The grounds in my cup glowing there, on the table, next to the first air-pressed crates of LPs. Afternoon dark. Another cassette storm. Smoke.

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