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2:40a.m.


2:40am, and he was lost in the sounds of Zufälligen Einbildungskraft. The rest of the world was asleep. He knew it wasn't his fault - at least not this time.

However, he had a nagging feeling. The closer he was to achieving his goal, the further away it seemed.

He'd read, studied, conjugated and codified - yet he felt no closer than when he began.

The world was drowning in a sea of poorly corrected pitch, and he was helpless to do anything about it.

The vibrations of authenticity and originality were growing fainter by the minute. It had been over thirty years since the last explosion, and even that had been a hollow replica of days gone by.

His heart broke a little when he realized Waits was little more than a Partch fanboy with delusions of Satchmotic wailings. 

Bones was a killer - with strings. 

The legends had become just that. Forgotten mythology rotting on a shelf, waiting to be rediscovered by academics and weirdos.

The day before, he'd sent pleas in multiple languages, in multiple formats - but to no earthly benefit. Just an ever-increasing number of close-minded sleeper cells; each praying to their chosen deity.

The clock ticked on. The next song started, posed its riddle, and faded into the next.

The pills were no longer working.

The screen flickered in its nonstop pattern of digital two-dimensional diorama. 

Phrenology was a bust.

Would the sun refuse to break or would it, like everything else, struggle to maintain the status quo?

A lavender beguine had been promised. All that was left was a deep-rooted sense of saudade. 


copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger


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