This issue is a tangle of whispers, split screen with water droplets, a mess with Strawberry Jell-O.
It doesn't pay enough to live on. It lap dances or more in the VIP booths. Counts coins in Saint Petersburg.
This issue is a beat brushed by poverty, a conversation on a train, a shadow, a noise, layers of paint wanting to combust.
It cannot live in this world: the world of profit. On the liquid edge, full of malcontents waiting to be sown by wind, it drifts off, officers walking behind. It's a sun-bleached cassette tape you can only play in your head.