Non esiste una fascia

String section died on the way in a bus crash going through a too-short underpass. Tubas pick up the slack since the clarinets are busy cutting themselves in the bathroom. An outdoor theater, and the awkward lack thereof allows a mute bird to sing in stuttered heaves perched on the soloist first chair: empty. Conductor flaps away at the pocketed orchestra like an infant clasped in eagle’s talons. The dog whistle quartet plays to the agony of strays skulking about Rome, about the theater; no one had played here in years. A trumpeter graces the stage late with the one-sticked xylophone hrumphing his three-beat G, G, G. Cracked notes blow through a rusty horn and he wishes he didn’t catch that last tube for the city’s Polis Necromancer, to the dead theater. The roadie uses his moment in the spotlight sun to not frill the wind chimes, but passes out in a pile of stray Schnauzers who couldn’t bear to breed with their sisters anymore. The wind takes his place and he sleeps soundly with the mange.Photography and Literature by Matt Gillick

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