Twist one bulb burning brighter than the rest, speak sparks. Empty the room of mismatched chairs, carelessly. 'All the chairs don't have arms.' We sit, surrounded by sailors. A thousand eyes of the dead look on us with our skin shivering. Hauling heavy handfuls into the room, as if traveling. But now being home. The floor is covered in wires, all tangled into one another like knots of hair, uncombed. Like: here is a lock of my hair, I am going sailing.

The ship we all sail on now rocks back and forth at a slow, steady pace. And he sings sand, storms. The stomach settles. 'Hair of the dog that bit you.' Outside the streets glow faintly from the rain, puddles huddled along the ridges of the road. What's warm, then, is the sound: the feedback from the plugs in the walls, the hum of the electricity, the storm we've sung before and will again.

Text by Jordaan Mason
Filmed by Mitch Fillion

myspace.com/thewoodensky
southernsouls.ca

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