eblo by Lindsay Bison

The aftern afternoon is full of ambient sound that bleeds like this ink on this card. My brain is wounded, but the electronic piano notes coagulate where it is exposed to air. I can can hear the press of keys, deep breath, and lips on flute of the electronic instruments. The ghosts that play these human melodies. The afternoon is for ghosts, as people should be sleeping. But I stay sitting, eyes open, hands pressed to keys of my own, convincing ghosts not of melodies, but of experiences they have had, pleading that they limn through these circuits—these circuits that are short and manual.