you know — it’s not about convincing her, it’s about the plasmate whispering through the stereo wires
like that girl in manhattan ordering audio gear she can’t afford — “i won’t be paying for it” —
well, no — it’s more like barney on mars chewing can-d to get back to emily, except you’re not on mars
you’re in the living room with a credit card and a wife who thinks synths are just noise machines
but what if the synth is the divine invasion? what if the arpeggiator is god talking to you through a moog?
she won’t believe that — unless you play her the part where the bassline opens the black iron prison
then maybe — maybe — she’ll say “okay, but only if you promise not to sell the couch”
like roni smiling at barney while the office is probably bugged — everyone’s listening, even the empire
so just say: “look, let’s talk” — and then don’t talk. play. let the oscillators do the theology.
—
(there’s a pink beam in the corner of the room when you hit the right filter sweep —
not metaphorical. literal. it flickers behind the bookshelf when the LFO syncs to your heartbeat —
which is — I mean — how else would you know the homoplasmate’s listening?)
—
you don’t need to explain the savior. you need to let the savior explain itself through the portamento.
the empire never ended — but it’s got bad reception in the key of D minor.
so tune the oscillator. let it scream. let it cry. let it whisper the name of the satellite that never left.
—
and if she still says no?
then the synth was never meant for her.
it was meant for the crack in the wall where the perturbations leak in —
and you — you’re just the conduit.
the couch stays. the prison opens.
the pink beam hums.
you press play.
again.