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…are the simple things. For instance, a song starting off with a phat beat and pulse-raising bassline, building tension on one glorious note until the simple release of a chord change. Beautiful. You can forgive a band almost any grotesque excess just to bask in the glorious simplicity of that drum and that bass.

Now, the above paragraph is descriptive enough, yes? Yet I’ve taken the liberty of Pitchforking it like so:

…are the simple things – not simplistic, mind you, merely unprepossessing – like a song infused with an enviable austerity, a sort of Jungian synchronicity melting the absence of dynamic interplay into the dreamstate-like repetition of bassline and beat. The sort of song one might sense upon waking from a particularly arctic dream, waking from the building tension of approaching daybreak to the gloriously understated climax of eyes cracking open, blinking in the glare of what can only be described as the archetypal chord change. One may forgive a band almost any grotesque superfluity in pursuit of that Dionysian ideal, that paradigm shift that completely redefines a record – nay, redefines an entire morning, an entire day, an entire week, an entire generation.

After I got home from doing other more important things (like working for much longer than felt right for a Friday and not, after all, getting to feed those homeless people), I went to Starbucks to write. I’ve felt the muse a lot lately, but tonight I began working on an idea I’ve felt developing in the back of my head for a while.

It’s the most depressing story I’ve ever written; even more depressing than some of the stories I have lived. What shocked me most is when I began to read it over to begin honing it down, I was affected by the words far more than I am accustomed. Who knows what it was, but as I sat there reading the memoirs of a person I had invented, I started crying in Starbucks, right there in the corner of the room with my laptop. Not bawling, mind you, but I’m sure I looked like a gigantic emo faggot.

But I strangely don’t care. And when you got on the GO bus, I almost started again; I don’t even know where you went. There wasn’t time to find out.