Saxony stars, silver hells, dine back and forth, crimp along the woodwells as peeving players, dine back players, ready for a good kill, a good moment. They wait, it never seems to arrive, usually in bad timing. Repertoire company procession off balance, never sure where to lead or begin.

 

       Particulars in crying along the woodwells, they head for a certain effect, a combination tonal quality, robust nature for a harvest silence band. They wore not strings to tip the bells and make sounds. Recurrence was the element they drew heavily on. They cast their sweet hairs over the iron timbres. Vibrating hairs, with no sounds coming in the room. Like a kettledrum, saxony stars played, yet their music was called silence. A pounding one to listen to. Woodwells shrieked and  hid. I did not mind it for it reminded me of something, I could not identify it. There were parts of it I knew I wanted to recall, but the exact pieces weren't there. A local dimination. The situation always moved. A key changed. Ever slightly. 

 

        Pavement stood still, carbon blackened my fingers and I needed to wash. Union divisions apparently divided this. The robust became rather a monotonous tone, straight in its formation; continuing. Though mellow. I suppose a graper with good lens shot the boundaries and pain. It was a satisfying effect.