Singing is magical breathing. We carry inescapable personal experience – like, say a car crash – through to escape by means of self-destroying technologies of control. We make ourselves more than ourselves by abstracting our breath to rhythm and melody – the medium of breath guaranteeing the ultimate mortality of what we possess. Singing is a means of dispossession. A way of growing spiritually poor so that there’s more room in us to be made up by the universal imagination.
Writing is a translation of breathing, a notation meant to further firm rhythm, to make more space, to sing with silence so as to make more room for sound. Writing is magical bleeding.