I Z Z Y   G A G E	there's always a note being played somewhere
	in the barn of the house where everyone's doing acid, there's an old upright piano with the faceboard missing. it's faded husk does little to protect the cats cradle of wires that makes up its guts and soul. initials have been scratched into the aged wood and when i try to read them, "it came like that," a woman tells me. did it come with the carcass of a dead rat, and the skull of a frog? those death heads, there, balancing on a row of black keys? she doesn't know and she plucks a low E and smothers it softly with its hammer. the tone buzzes against the cushion and dies out.
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