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Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

Bantam Axethrow places his Arcadia album on the phonograph, with delicacy, and is taken away in its throbs and beauty. He thinks of love.
A soft man of strong passions, he thinks not of money or of the concrete. When he is alone with his music, he is a flower. He blossoms within himself, becoming a muscle-less ball of emotion. He travels to his lover to hold her hand, gently kissing her.
He is a construction worker, and he sweats like a beast in the hot sun, deafened for hours by his jack hammer. He enjoys chocolate cherry cordials, and he is listening to "So Red the Rose." He is lonely, and misses his girlfriend. He loves her very much, and she loves him very much. But sometimes they are strangers, and sometimes they are one. Sometimes he looks into her eyes and cries, feeling himself drawn into some sort of heaven. Other times he is no affection—he is reticence in a cold glass room. Once in a while he buys his love a flower. He sometimes lets it wilt in the hot sun, or bake to death in his black metal lunch box.
He cannot find his girl recently. She is there, but he does not recognize her. But soon he knows he will hold her, and will not recognize himself. He wonders what is honesty. He flips his album.
Bantam knows that Arcadia is awesome. It's his only album. He doesn't need anything else. He only needs music when he needs Arcadia. It knows his only cultured mood. It is enough to fill his musical need to its fullest. He has heard other music, carried in through wisps of breath, but it does not touch him. He is alone with his phonograph, crying in a barren concrete room. He likes the voice. He does not know whose it is. He has no album sleeve. He has only a blank record, with a piece of masking tape in the black center, on which he has scrawled "arcadia. so red the Rose." And he lives its passions as it spins.
Bantam's album is over now, and he is gone away. A hollow breeze puffs about the room. There is no smell, no particular warmth or chill. The concrete has no break. There is no window. There is no door. But somehow Bantam's gone, leaving only his phonograph, and his record.
He's gone and found his girl. She's in his powerful arms, and they are one. She is no Lady Ice. They are purity, gone away into some simple heaven. The world is gone, until Bantam comes back.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

Bantam Axethrow places his Arcadia album on the phonograph, with delicacy, and is taken away in its throbs and beauty. He thinks of love.
A soft man of strong passions, he thinks not of money or of the concrete. When he is alone with his music, he is a flower. He blossoms within himself, becoming a muscle-less ball of emotion. He travels to his lover to hold her hand, gently kissing her.
He is a construction worker, and he sweats like a beast in the hot sun, deafened for hours by his jack hammer. He enjoys chocolate cherry cordials, and he is listening to "So Red the Rose." He is lonely, and misses his girlfriend. He loves her very much, and she loves him very much. But sometimes they are strangers, and sometimes they are one. Sometimes he looks into her eyes and cries, feeling himself drawn into some sort of heaven. Other times he is no affection—he is reticence in a cold glass room. Once in a while he buys his love a flower. He sometimes lets it wilt in the hot sun, or bake to death in his black metal lunch box.
He cannot find his girl recently. She is there, but he does not recognize her. But soon he knows he will hold her, and will not recognize himself. He wonders what is honesty. He flips his album.
Bantam knows that Arcadia is awesome. It's his only album. He doesn't need anything else. He only needs music when he needs Arcadia. It knows his only cultured mood. It is enough to fill his musical need to its fullest. He has heard other music, carried in through wisps of breath, but it does not touch him. He is alone with his phonograph, crying in a barren concrete room. He likes the voice. He does not know whose it is. He has no album sleeve. He has only a blank record, with a piece of masking tape in the black center, on which he has scrawled "arcadia. so red the Rose." And he lives its passions as it spins.
Bantam's album is over now, and he is gone away. A hollow breeze puffs about the room. There is no smell, no particular warmth or chill. The concrete has no break. There is no window. There is no door. But somehow Bantam's gone, leaving only his phonograph, and his record.
He's gone and found his girl. She's in his powerful arms, and they are one. She is no Lady Ice. They are purity, gone away into some simple heaven. The world is gone, until Bantam comes back.