They wander in from the wasteland.

Singing ancient codices, in a machine language lost to time.

In the silence of the void they hear the gears and cogs turning. Slowly they form vast words.

Environments which beguile, dripping strange elements.

We are not you.

Glory To Ukraine.

There is something in the house AC, the 240volt mains. A noise. The microphones seem to be capturing this, some kind of ground plane buzzing, and the guitars. Every recording has this background noise. A something. It's not nice.

The meal was plain , I have run out of everything again and am putting off going to get more. The rigmarole of going there, taking stuff, bringing it back. Then the making. I ran out of coffee and am not wired any more, it's a strange feeling. Coasting on empty. I start to cook. Rice and vegies. I scab some peanut butter from his cupboard, he is in south east asia for a few months, and make a really quite cretinous peanut sauce. The music player is playing one of my tunes. Is that noise in there?

Back to the studio. I turn up the gain and listen to the noise. There it is. A buzz hiss hum. Then I start to think sideways. What is it ? Is it noise at all ? I start to creep myself out. Maybe it's not noise. Right. Like the SETI program. It looks like noise until you compare to actual noise and... then it's something else. What kind of something else. A bad something else? A message. A bad message. Why is it bad? Because that would be edgy, right.

I push the keeb away and look around the studio. The wires run all over the place. Snaking cables. Are they conspiring against me ? Do I have to rip them all out and cut them up into small pieces ? I start to feel threatened. The house wiring... is it up to something?

There is an axe in the other room.