Tea is my poison


When half-term cuts leave to a full roster tour of spot a chase and club a space between voice and choice, local sound opts for a relocated signature shifting from guest to ghost. No deep primal views — hidden in skin moist with must — or final cues are to be taken in, or to be laid down on abecedarian melodies. Like sitting by the same window ambient gestures generally wash ashore. Lines overtaken by the long march through furrows and texture may as well check their tracks and tune their lucidly emphatic pedals as if neither is at hand to make the sun go round a lean simile. A one-to-one open day open slows down to an exchange of e-mails and fingernails. While still tall and slim, slipping into when and then stops both pitch and pause. Ago is one decision ago to focus act upon act in grace-born space.