where did you go? through that intermediary zone between whistle and the deepest bass of the sea. fragments carried by the wind, subterfuge and beguile; falling to your cones.
really, when the end is the end and night turns to dawning light, who really cares if it’s blue or ultramarine?
you’re tritone, i’m trita, either way i can’t hear you. call out to me, are you there yet? have you returned? and, really, how could you possibly care if it’s the high sea or the low C?