Page 40 Volume 23 on Shelf 4 of Wall 3 of Hexagon:

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A most unusual feeling

Sailing on electric ribbons of sound
Dark wood grain and the soft hum of strung flourescent lights
An odd colored rug and a dimly lit garage

The dance beyond his limits
Blues for Allah
Free your mind, your ass will follow

Adventure holds fragrant memories
Bathing in smoke above a cedar-fire
Crude burning engines that barrelled across the old west for a campout
Lining a future cask with memories, sounds, and cascading quantum frequencies
Stopping at a motel and levy for three minutes of an uninterrupted smoke break
Neon signs buzz under the residual beating heart of a cancelled day
These sounds, these sonic ribbons of light.
The present time fleets this far past the breathing man.
Generations.
Though far dead now, remains a succor to a digital prisoner

The central scrutinizer
Eyes aren't meant for computer screens
Computers once worked with pencils, and would go home at night and eat dinner
Their tireless work carried meatbags to the moon
now replaced with copper wires and motherboards

Chipping white face paint
Gaunt eyes rounded in an egyptian curtain of charcoal
Slobbering poetry through meshed metal into the electrical signal
Transcribed into magnetic current, wound into a tape

Fractal gradients of color and sonic throbbing
It fills his ears, the magnetic tape swirling slowly on his lap,
sitting back in his listening chair with a long cord wrapped in his fingers
the unencumbered mind of a pre-internet being
intoxicated by the music..... just the music.
Smoke curling around the player's fingers, a stogie burns in his right hand resting on the chair
Two fingers harbor the dart while the thumb and subsequents a miller lite
Hi-fi muffs pressing long hair over his ears.


It is 1978, and this hypothetical has more than I'll ever know.
I sit beyond a line in the sands of time.
Criss cross apple-sauce.
The world wide web, being the line.
and I the ever aging glass eye.
Rock and roll, i am unfamiliar with.
A most unusual feeling it is.
When I hear the buzzing of strings ripped across 50 years prior.


I long for a time that breathes fewer breaths each day, in only the memory of the dying.
An albatross, carried around seaside mountains uncarved by railroads or highways.
Sailing hardships through broken harbours, out on the waves in the night.
A time where the magnetic tapes keep me in ignorance to that prism of consciousnes years beyond

In some other reality, i walk barefoot while my chest vibrates to the volume of a festival.
Where the colored lights aid the wisdom of the sage behind the analog microphone.
Where Neil rips across a distorted signal, and communicates a timeless philosophy.
Where Denver was a place and a person.
Where Jerry whisps a swan song.
Where the band slow-jams in a pulsing guitar solo
My brain bending so hard on acid that the music alone fastens me to the earth.
I find myself imagining this place of constant sunset in my mind.
Where music is religion.
Where drums make us dance.
Where synthesizers breathe.
Where soloists are prophets.
Where someone else is the cursed one...
who must partake of this music, in a one and zero digital mimicry of art...
rather than I.








https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7mnZYv1NQ7Tuj2IY290YUy?si=wLJ_M5luRzW2-tVRN07bGQ

it might be past my bed time and nobody will see this anyways

i wrote a soundtrack

45 minutes of gut wrenching music

straight from my soul

several weeks ago i released the trailer

all i have is music....

it might be past my bed time

20 people liked my instagram video, one commented

100+ people saw my story

100 people viewed the youtube link

32% watched until the end

two commented

("rad")

5 people liked it

one dislike :/

(I have reason to believe it was my dad--too dark for the family reputation i guess)

it might be past my bed time

must be my religious instability

im sorry for asking questions

im sorry its too dark for everyone, i just wanted to make music

i've felt a need to make this soundtrack since i was a kid

i ALWAYS knew i could write a soundtrack

but i was wrong about being able to make one that people would admire

im sorry i put myself out there

i know how this goes

the artist who plays at every cafe he can

and doesnt get noticed

and gives up

to go to school to be a businessman

it might be past my bed time

is this what dreams are made of?

because if it is true i dont want to sleep anymore

i want to wake up

this is a nightmare

i cant be who i want to be

i dont think i'll ever find myself like i did before

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WuQemHtE354

i think i'm just supposed to shut up

i think they expect me to keep it up

i think they want me to stay

                                            i might be done

it might be past my bed time

i cant even afford to quit anyways

it wouldnt work

itd only set me back further

so as i sit writing this

im reminded of how hard i try

 for 

nothing 

in return

it might be past my bed time

how much i cared

i cant ask other people to care about me

.....its just that....

people i care about 

make me feel small sometimes

and nobody really cares about josh hill :/

Another bender

Brushed flannel on my back

Calfskin boots on my feet

They creek along the wooden floorboards of this cabin for another round on the rocks

The fellas in the smoke shed are the only company south of Fairbanks

The second hand gives me a familiar headache
The darts conclude a long and hard day's work

This Alaskan solstice has my spirit saddlesore
The land of the midnight sun they call it
Every hour in this light has me weary for a proper rest

This wilderness is welded together by these rails
To which I find my time spent riding
Brown mane dancing behind me as the whistle blows

My heart, once gold, is now a rusted iron
And these are sinning hands
This Alaskan vice is the ace in the hole

My chest is heavy and burns inside from another bender
And in this quiet mire, I stare out these train windows
Wishing I was yonder, in the safety of true love's arms

--

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZmxZThb084

“Harvest Moon” is just a song

Trembling under that moon.
That harvest moon?

Feet in the december water but I was warm as I’d ever been.

That moon stole my fairytale away.

I’ll never love that deeply again.

Not because another woman isnt out there...

But because I thought I found her once before...

And she traded us for them.

Trust is just a word now.

Love is just a word now.
Feelings remain alive in me...

But theyre just feelings.

I’ve been burned by that fire before.

It still burns...

But I’d rather wander away in the woods and howl at that moon.

My fairytale is over.

No love is true.

No trust will last.

Life is suffering.

Its okay.

I’m happier on my own...

Because at least I lie to myself less.

My dreams are still haunted by it.
Like my conscious  self is over it, but my subconcsience is still really sick.
Like Mol in Inception.
She shows up in every other dream.
Just to fuck with me.
Its like every other day I have to get over it again.
Every morning is spent processing my dreams.
Dreams I wish would have been true.
Dreams I’m absolutely disgusted by.
Either way they leave me in a funk.

Loneliness and love are intense emotions.
She was my sweetheart... but that didnt mean enough to her I guess

Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow

Three thousand miles.

The drive was long and quiet.

Pines that would not stop coming.

Allot was on my mind.

She was on my mind, and I didn't seem to care, which is an important step in the right direction.

I've become the rolling stone that Bob Dylan sang about.

I overcame everything thrown my way.

My hat makes me feel stronger than I think I can be, and I've put it on appropriately when I need to buck up and be a man.

I was driving home last night, one of the first "nights" I've had here. The sun is always up in Alaska.

Streets were quiet, and the music made the coastal city come alive for a while.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eh-PMHmd00o

It was beautiful.

--

I woke up this morning and my fresh mind thought that when I swung the van doors open I'd be in Logan, instead, I put my boots on in the anchorage rain.

I feel responsible here. Like I'm becoming my dad. I put my rain jacket, watch, and boots on, I go to work and make to-do lists.

I've become someone I can count on. Someone who at the very least will be 100% honest with me, someone who will argue with me, and someone who will revive me when I've been hit.

I was sitting in the van today when the sun came out, the first patch of blue skies I'd seen since home. It was so blue.

Homesickness comes and goes.

These Alaskan sunsets go on forever though, and the seaborne clouds and the salty air are enough for me.

I will get by.

--

J,

I'll always be glad that I just came out and told you how I felt about you, even if it was too late, happening hours before I left.

Sometime in the fall, I'll see you, and you'll see me.

You know how well I would care for you, and you for me.

I know you won't let go by the Fall, and I don't really care.

I'm not going to fight for someone who won't fight for me.

I'm indifferent to the idea of "falling in love" anyways.

I have feelings for you, but I'm indifferent to them.

So when you come back with your answer, and it's not the one for me...

I won't ask you why.

I'm not the one who didn't let go

Remember October, when my world was coming back together?

And you.

You tried to see if the strings on your hands could still move me about.

And they did.

Now I am the one who can't let go?

No.

I did let go.

And you came back.

You always come back.

And it hurts.