Just a quick post-recording post. Not that anyone is there anyway, I mean, I could just be typing out the telephone directory. Its rather shocking really that the only person who reads this thing at the moment is me, and since I'm the only one writing it too, that breaks me down unto some kind of self-fulfilling fraction that even Newton couldn't have comprehended. Einstein could though - he was always self-fulfilling himself with his fingers-in-socket hair and his theories and stuff. "It's all relative," he'd scream...
Anyway, two songs done, both sounding tasty. One tastes like rock with a bit of cheese and a side helping of 'dead', and one tastes like an interminable trudge through a desolate dictatorship, flies in eyes, and Amazonian gleaming women tempting, and then disembowelling you. And very, very tiny heads. Kind of like mushrooms on toast then.
"When?" you cry... well, I cry actually (see above). Well, I don't fucking know! It takes us weeks to tie our bloody shoelaces. "When shall we practice," says one... and then an agenda is drawn up to comprehensively cover this subject. "Get the business plan out Andy... what did they say at the seminar Ed?". Gah... new music soon, you'll like, cheers Pete, you're welcome buddy, fancy a cuppa, sure, I'll make it, no I'll make it, no it's fine, no honestly I would have made it anyway, seriously I was going to get a biscuit anyway, biscuit? Yeah. Great I'll get them, no it's cool, no seriously...
Repeat, like, forever.
Petros Petros Pisco and his friend, Pinter Quilinski
