Fri. 8-9pm       zero       Fri. 10-11pm
Fri. 9-10pm

. . .

It's Friday night, 9 pm, and you're alone, sitting in your room, face lit by the harsh blue cathode glow. I wonder what all my friends are doing? No reply. I feel like I ought to be depressed.

But depression doesn't come easily. It would be such a blessing to feel something strongly now, but you just... don't. Your mind yawns with the swelling of strings—not sad—dirge-like, mournful, perhaps, but it doesn't feel sad. Treading the thin line between sorrow and joy, it feels good to float, not to worry about the next step, even as the drum beats out a slow march. Even as the violin swells.

. . .

You turn, looking out the dark window at the shadows of apartments and satellites, the evergreens waving like paintbrushes drawing a swath of darkness across the night. In all those other rooms, people sit, just like you.

"My heart stopped pumpin', but my blood is still alive."

Think about that—millions, billions of cells, pumping and flowing in harmony. A silhouette moves behind the curtains of the apartment across the night, and you wish you had seen the sun set earlier.

. . .

9:11 pm, mocks the red gleam of the clock, and you're just sitting here, listening. Any chance to redeem this evening has gone. The phone's not going to ring now. But some people don't even have any need for a phone—no one ever calls them. At least yours will ring tomorrow.

"It's nothing that I haven't seen before, but it still kills me like it did before."

Treading the fine line between guilty self-pity and calm assurance, straying, it feels good to sing along.

. . .

You can sympathize, even though you're in no sorry state. You don't need energy, all you need are wavering strings. The fact is, if someone asked why you were purposely listening to sad music tonight, you'd have no answer.

"Let's hang about, there's nothing like a sunset here tonight."

Would it be better to have a reason?

. . .

"...ha one two three for five six seven eight, ha one two three four five six and on ye go!"

The dark has closed in outside your window, now the light inside seems too bright and too yellow. Wouldn't it almost be better to be in peril somewhere, adventure? No reply. At least you can tell stories about misfortune.

. . .

There's no moon out tonight, either, just clouds and fog glowing with the aseptic, faintly nauseating orange-pink pulse of streetlights, and the reflection of the city's lights on the ceiling of clouds, across the river.

"...see into the dark... ...just follow your eyes... ...just follow your eyes..."

Hah. Stranded, lost. You imagine trying to walk over to that reflection, that mirage. It's impossible to travel in this world without burning gasoline. There's isolation in that thought. Unbidden, a memory of a dream surfaces—

—hunching against the grey roots of a tree in a boundless forest, watched.

. . .

Shiver. The nightmare melts away, buoyed by a staircase of moonlight slashing through the clouds momentarily. The moon is out after all.

"There's magic in the air... tonight, tonight. ...there's nothing in this life for me, tonight. But nothing ever seemed so bright."

I guess it's always out somewhere, isn't it? There's a charm in loneliness.

Treading the fine line between wistful solitude and numbing isolation, erring in the light.

. . .

A shimmer of glass as your eyes focus on their own reflection, no longer looking out the window, but using the contrast between light and dark as a mirror. You open the window a crack, letting in the cool air.

"...I know I would die if I could come back new... the fresh wind and bright sky, to enjoy my suffering."

It's too bad this planet doesn't have any rings. No reply. What a sunset that would be.

. . .

Sunset, sunrise, which is better? You've seen plenty of sunrises, but you've rarely stopped to appreciate them like you've appreciated the sun setting. One time you called the sunrise "morning set." I'll bet that says something about my personality.

"So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten... sons are like birds, flying upward over the mountain."

Or about my life.

. . .

With the clouds, there are of course no stars out tonight. I guess those are always out somewhere, too.

"Where do you go when you're lonely? Where do you go when you're blue?"

Guitar that sounds like the steps of a waltz. I stay at home.

. . .

If there were a crack in the wall it would be something to stare at, a sign of decay, a memento mori. Sometimes you feel like all you have to remind you is yourself.

"But now... you thought you heard a sound. There's no one else around. Lookin' at the door... it's comin' through the floor."

It's always good to confront an ending before the real end.

. . .

An hour can be a long trip, like miles on the highway. I feel the slow doppler pitch of moments blurring past. Time is really just perception of relative change. This hour has been the perception of nothing but minute modulations in the density of the atmosphere.

"Sometimes my feelings get in the way of what I really feel I needed to say."

If a butterfly can cause a typhoon, what can a sound wave cause? No reply. A black hole?

. . .

Treading the fine line between longing loneliness and calm introspection, eyes blind and arms outstretched, touching every sense to make sense of it.

"...sides will not matter now, matter makes no sense."

10:00. No reply.

. . .

Friday, 9:00 PM

Dirty Three - Lullaby for Christie   7.45   (01
Ugly Casanova - Cat Faces   3.36   (02
Beck - End of the Day   5.03   (03
Belle and Sebastian - Don't Leave the Light on Baby   4.41   (04
Mogwai - A cheery wave from stranded youngsters   2.21   (05
The Cure - A Forest   4.55   (06
Badly Drawn Boy - Magic in the Air   3.43   (07
Wilco - Ashes of American Flags   4.44   (08
Ryan Adams - When the Stars Go Blue   3.31   (09
The White Stripes - This Protector   2.12   (10
Iron and Wine - Upward Over the Mountain   5.56   (11
Modest Mouse - Edit the Sad Parts   7.06   (12
Fugazi - Argument   4.27   (13

Friday, 10:00 PM

. . .

Fri. 8-9pm       zero       Fri. 10-11pm

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.