In The Hanging Garden, No One Sleeps

My lovely lady friend Andie took off to California for the summer, and very kindly agreed to let me use her apartment as a sort of retreat from my own house. She also has a walk-in closet full of clothes, which doubles nicely as a vocal recording booth.

Unfortunately, this has coincided with one of my rare stomach bugs. Not pleasant. You don’t want the details.

So I’m sitting in this darkened, empty apartment listening to The Cure’s Pornography and trying to steel myself to go get some sort of foodstuffs to complement Andie’s extensive collection of pastas and grains. It was 100º today, and I ventured out early in the afternoon to get Gatorade (to replace my electrolytes. Electrolytes are what plants crave.) and I thought I was gonna pass out on the broiling pavement and die.

I feel weak and generally shitty (no pun intended) and my brain seems to be running on impulse power and it’s finally cool enough that I’m maybe willing to venture outside. It’s only about 75º now.

But I like sitting here, with this gloomy, spacy music playing. It’s weird to forget what it’s like to be alone.

Once I’ve got the couple of actual work projects I’m doing right now completed, I’m gonna finish the album here.

Anyway, I don’t even know why I’m posting this, except that I’m bored and my head is spinning.

So. Yeah.

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