moody weather, moody room, the end of a year. after a few benign horn honks declared an exhausted end to an awful year, drew and I compose & flood the warehouse with what is quite possibly the last cure for anxiety either of us know of, something of a declaration of intent as much as a relief from a forgettable end to a turbulent stretch

At The Warehouse

in the first hours, 2020

we let this play for nearly four hours; we don’t have much but what we do have is worth more than most of what i see going around these days, and this year could be the year, this place might be the place