The shop was small, tucked away underneath an apartment building on Sixth Avenue. I ducked my head as I walked down the steps, and a small bell chimed as I stepped out of the frosty wind.
Sera wasn’t what you would call a “party person.” Yet here he was, walking in his tight shiny pants, to a party full of obnoxious theater kids.
Some people say that you can make a house in your mind and place certain memories in each room. For me, it’s geometric. Things are generally organized, but there is some mess. It’s like going to the attic.
A queer sense of volume filling the ears with silence. Like a child’s hand in his hand. Body quivers and aches. Touch me not.
Over the past few months in quarantine, I’ve written three songs that attempt to document how this all sounds to me.
The Office is not just a TV show about funny personalities; it is the prototypical story of a small business in an increasingly monopolized, neoliberal economy.