On the Making of Islands

Looking back over my notebooks and snippets of text written on my laptop during that period of time in early 2010, I found something written at a particular point of exhaustion: It is three twelve in the morning, some morning, it doesn’t really matter what morning, or that it is morning, or that it is three plus some arbitrary zero and twelve plus some arbitrary zero. Zero is always arbitrary... It is raining outside, a breeze blowing through an open window says to my skin.

I lie here on the papasan chair, headphones on but no sound is coming through. There is an infinite space backwards which I look forward to excavating, continuously.

It was at this moment, listening to a sound clip I produced titled jet_first_200_notch on a repeat loop, that I fell asleep, laptop in my lap, rain still falling, all things returning. The excavation has begun.