This isn't music, this is a poem at 0 MPH that was once 666 hundred, there's this island I once tried where Bjork they say burst from a womb, but far from her pierced parts is me here, alone in Madison as a birthday passes, slugging back the Brennivin far from that harsh hometown of the Army of Her, and I wonder, a bit, how I got here.

It was love, yes, that drove me here, like matches to a family suffering in the dark beneath a tidal wave. But it was also desire, pounding like a 6/8 beat for a musical slide I never knew would die once I arrived.

And then, and then, there is guitar plain, a finger in cool air this evening, and warm brennivin.

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