This is not of course either the masterpiece or "masterpiece" to which I was referring, neither the first nor the second of these, it is an unusual hard rock - new wave danish RIO-influenced proggish lost album along the lines of Zauberfinger but with less compositional complexity or originality, I am not sure exactly what happened to the aforementioned piece, it is perhaps somewhere on this computer but the hard drive, of course, being full of thousands, or tens of thousands of songs, is not easy to search through and in fact, although it is now downloaded onto my ipod, there is no way to transfer off this ipod back on to the computer-- apple has made this very difficult for no obvious reason to me other than mere perversity, so it may be that this "masterpiece" (I dread to use those quotes today, I know not how else to describe it though, please forgive me), will no longer show up again, how ironic that it should be so rescued from oblivion only to be thrown back into the unending ocean of nothingness again much like our simple lives and existences, but then is it not fitting, and how many other such masterpieces have truly been lost (here because I am speaking in the abstract hypothetical I dispense with the quotes) just as the plays of Sophocles that were lost, as we know from contemporary accounts, so many works from ancient Greece (--considered of course masterpieces by their brethren, who would never have dared to ironically use quotation marks as we moderns are so apt to do) are lost to us, and think of Petronius' Satyricon, this record oops I mean novel copied by hand through the brutal middle ages, survived in the end only in pieces, perhaps destroyed in conflagrations, or by over-inquisitional zealous monks, despite its prurient content it was rightly regarded by those chaste monastics as a masterpiece of literature, so it may well be like this my masterpiece of progressive will never see the sound waves of the light of day or night but then I wonder, was it ever really a masterpiece (after all when I played it for my wife her response was 'can you please stop listening to music and help me with the kids, you know, those children that you're the father of,' which was not positive, at least I didn't conceive it as such although I did appreciate the honesty which made me doubt whether ever her praise can be taken at face value or is merely polite 'humouring' of my odd taste, the middle of which cerebration suddenly was shattered by a more strident urgency in my wife's voice, 'can you please tell your children to stop!! !'
(running and screaming in circles that is -- a habit of which they are peculiarly enamoured)), was I merely deluding myself in this respect because perhaps many would have disagreed, the majority even, and would have denigrated it-- would it be better I not propose it as such only to get shot down as it were, perhaps better that it is lost again to the evil criticisms of jealously impervious humanity, perhaps it is better that it is merely a memory, merely the shadow of an imagining which you can translate into your own pygmalionic ideal in your own auditory or intrasensory terms as you so choose, so perhaps let us cloister it with so many quotations, let us say, that it is indeed this " " "m" or """"--masterpiece""""""(note I do not bother with any symmetric arithmetic of the quotations now, we are in free-jazz territory as it were now) so worthy of quotes that I shall multiply the quotes million-fold until they are legion, until this page is but a series of little ticks on the tops of the lines to represent what is the greatest acoustic memory that shall never be, never be represented as such in existence, an "acoustic" "memory" that is no more a """[m]-yhwh""" than the memory of the letters and lines that I punctuate my thoughts with, let us call it the ineffable, the tetragrammaton, the "that-which-shall-render-thee-deaf" the name of god which is unspeakably strange unusual and to be placed in invisible quotes now (this is why you cannot see them anymore I wrote them in invisible ink) -- but what if it is not so either, and it is truly a masterpiece, one of the greatest ever created by human minds, then truly this is a monumental tragedy worthy of another lost LP oops I mean play of Aeschylus it is a horrific event, comparable to the extinction via space-rock of the sauropods and depressing in the extreme, wherefore I am tempted to return to the iv heroin or perhaps crushed oxycontin that is the only succour for such profound suffering and pain -- oh wait a minute, I think I just found it again... It's right here. OK forget what I just said. It'll be up shortly.sample track, appopotomax [!!] :
This is not of course either the masterpiece or "masterpiece" to which I was referring, neither the first nor the second of these, it is an unusual hard rock - new wave danish RIO-influenced proggish lost album along the lines of Zauberfinger but with less compositional complexity or originality, I am not sure exactly what happened to the aforementioned piece, it is perhaps somewhere on this computer but the hard drive, of course, being full of thousands, or tens of thousands of songs, is not easy to search through and in fact, although it is now downloaded onto my ipod, there is no way to transfer off this ipod back on to the computer-- apple has made this very difficult for no obvious reason to me other than mere perversity, so it may be that this "masterpiece" (I dread to use those quotes today, I know not how else to describe it though, please forgive me), will no longer show up again, how ironic that it should be so rescued from oblivion only to be thrown back into the unending ocean of nothingness again much like our simple lives and existences, but then is it not fitting, and how many other such masterpieces have truly been lost (here because I am speaking in the abstract hypothetical I dispense with the quotes) just as the plays of Sophocles that were lost, as we know from contemporary accounts, so many works from ancient Greece (--considered of course masterpieces by their brethren, who would never have dared to ironically use quotation marks as we moderns are so apt to do) are lost to us, and think of Petronius' Satyricon, this record oops I mean novel copied by hand through the brutal middle ages, survived in the end only in pieces, perhaps destroyed in conflagrations, or by over-inquisitional zealous monks, despite its prurient content it was rightly regarded by those chaste monastics as a masterpiece of literature, so it may well be like this my masterpiece of progressive will never see the sound waves of the light of day or night but then I wonder, was it ever really a masterpiece (after all when I played it for my wife her response was 'can you please stop listening to music and help me with the kids, you know, those children that you're the father of,' which was not positive, at least I didn't conceive it as such although I did appreciate the honesty which made me doubt whether ever her praise can be taken at face value or is merely polite 'humouring' of my odd taste, the middle of which cerebration suddenly was shattered by a more strident urgency in my wife's voice, 'can you please tell your children to stop!! !' 
(running and screaming in circles that is -- a habit of which they are peculiarly enamoured)), was I merely deluding myself in this respect because perhaps many would have disagreed, the majority even, and would have denigrated it-- would it be better I not propose it as such only to get shot down as it were, perhaps better that it is lost again to the evil criticisms of jealously impervious humanity, perhaps it is better that it is merely a memory, merely the shadow of an imagining which you can translate into your own pygmalionic ideal in your own auditory or intrasensory terms as you so choose, so perhaps let us cloister it with so many quotations, let us say, that it is indeed this " " "m" or """"--masterpiece""""""(note I do not bother with any symmetric arithmetic of the quotations now, we are in free-jazz territory as it were now) so worthy of quotes that I shall multiply the quotes million-fold until they are legion, until this page is but a series of little ticks on the tops of the lines to represent what is the greatest acoustic memory that shall never be, never be represented as such in existence, an "acoustic" "memory" that is no more a """[m]-yhwh""" than the memory of the letters and lines that I punctuate my thoughts with, let us call it the ineffable, the tetragrammaton, the "that-which-shall-render-thee-deaf" the name of god which is unspeakably strange unusual and to be placed in invisible quotes now (this is why you cannot see them anymore I wrote them in invisible ink) -- but what if it is not so either, and it is truly a masterpiece, one of the greatest ever created by human minds, then truly this is a monumental tragedy worthy of another lost LP oops I mean play of Aeschylus it is a horrific event, comparable to the extinction via space-rock of the sauropods and depressing in the extreme, wherefore I am tempted to return to the iv heroin or perhaps crushed oxycontin that is the only succour for such profound suffering and pain -- oh wait a minute, I think I just found it again... It's right here. OK forget what I just said. It'll be up shortly.sample track, appopotomax [!!] :
