what it is, etc.

you struggle to hammer words into the music, but you must, right, because the voice and the words & thoughts voiced are so essential to the higher gestalt, right--right? but it never rattles off into deep kruggian windings, no, you can't work out more than a bare framework supporting a single sentiment, the notion is minimal, limited. its only a thin outline of an obscure feeling, you lean on repetition, muttering the same two-note phrase in groups of four. the leanness of your verbage is akin to the specificity of the music itself, the music coming and going in throw-away fits, each song a container for one passing mood, emitted in the moment, sculpted for an hour, packed away and forgotten, uploaded and barely noted. the words and the sounds are all in miniature, all time-stamped and committed to the instant of their emergence and no more. it all flows like some uneventful weather, spontaneous and forgettable, outpoured from your anonymous aetheric haze and always of no consequence, like atmosphere, like breeze.