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Available for over a year
what is this box that makes all air incarnate, that breeds the ether with flesh and a flavour, as though a field of daffodils or a honking horn with a cow passing by were in continual motion, in commotion about a kitchen island, this radio inflating the air with its aerial repertoires, or are we, are we so porous, so liftable like the feel of hourly pips as they pad the blue, that we become radio, radio riding in the airwaves while washing greens in a colander, that we lose ourselves to this air, this breath of the aftermath, say, when we turn up the dial caught in molten horrors honeying the earth, or while we simply while ourselves in a melody that caught us off-radar, oh air, the spontaneities of air, a burden released as we wear a blank, undemanding face that leads us by our lugs, our lobes alone, for the breath that colours the way we breathe, and we didn’t have to speak or make a sound and we didn’t have to speak or make a sound
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