AUTOMATICS GROUP featuring AMY WINEDEATH
Ammo A Mass A Mat
She lay, naked, draped across the piano, her nipples still erect from her recent encounter. Globules dripped onto the keys, lying like translucent mercury pools, somewhere between solid and liquid, defying definition. She might be asleep; she might not. It's a special private place which cannot be shared or revealed. Her right hand slowly stroked the keys, as if to play; but there is no need for music now. She has her own sounds playing breezily around her; no need for form. Her fingers h…