It is never three in the morning when i dream. It is autumn, or my birthday or time to go. It is a funeral attended by my grandfather. Some old friends. And overrun by ants. It is a revelation. A reckoning. An unexpected turn of phrase that returns me to three in the morning, to awareness, and to you. And only then can i finally close my eyes and return to autumn, to a funeral. To this.
In which a long-time record collector and sometimes poet shares shares vinyl finds, words of worth, and plays keep or cull.
