future quantum music wells.

Tremulous offerings: a chronic catalogue, or perhaps a chronotopy cantaloupe. Be they the debrided, rejudged, somnolescent recordings of  Other Time, did we broadcast our ink-tracings across the rhamnescent oblong interrogatories at a frequency at or above one point three seven two times ten to the sixty one Hertz? Had our tea-machines been carefully (perhaps egregiously) collimated into a kind of directed biomechanical symphony of incoherent kinesthetical Ur-Skulpturs? The Sun-Daughter of the Irrigated Celery hid amongst the viridian tipped vermillion megaflora and transmitted Morse code in stationary photons into the void, preparing for an imaginary Mustard Rebellion? Her way is of studious and applied inscrutability. Of what controvertible focus were our equivalencies to be mated, or perhaps unfaithfully retransmitted by lossy reencoders? It's a dance, it's a directed arctangency graph, it's a intensity filter, it's the scent of marimba oil dissolved in carbonated glee, of the disbursement of oxygen by above megaflora, by the contemptible blowhards who occupy the Sav Faragandro Pub by Lvessy and 3 pi / 7 street, by the thin vaporous contrails of chance percolating through the green fields of Cassavarsis-on-Tovmire, prepending loss chess games and postpending amorous interludes, once again besmirching the noncrystalline asymmetry of time, waiting for a fervency that is neither attainable or attunable, and in that being the eidolons of noninured clemency, for their vows of thermal noise be abrogated against the wind, being understated like rotationally abjured jellyfish, awaiting that one perfect siphonophore, or just a lowly oxygen molecule dissolved in the surf: nay, says the hermit, for the sousaphone crows of distant smoke-puff cereals at two in the morning, prepared to provide some rather unusual deliverables, and in that, with no cormorant quorum available, does the radio wave diffracting neutrino offer any coherent commentary on the sleeping rocks: the show may go on, and the band may continue to play, but the sensory qualia of the show simply fail to impinge on the stones at all. They are silent witnesses, except those who are mined for materials for radios and music playing devices: their involvement in the process occupies a unquietly unique, and somewhat less than just, less than conscious but certainly not lost on sapients, position. The ore that would store the song in quantum states, rather than notes on paper, or cuneiform.