then another f*cking week begins twice.
The first opening is an eight-minute artifact produced after the lyrics and style fields exchanged places. The machine ignores both supplied texts. Instrumental machinery runs for several minutes before a voice appears, singing in partially formed, sometimes unrecognizable language. One supplied word survives inside it:
week.
The intended first track begins afterward. The previous week did not finish. Its remaining processes enter the next file and become the conditions of everything that follows.
The album moves through machine memory, objects rotating around a timeline, static evidence, inherited structures, and the missing position where the first soma.circuit album should stand. The archive expands while its errors remain correctly placed inside it.
Another day becomes current before the body reaches it. Summer arrives as external data. The body continues reporting winter. Cold preserves damage and function together, holding the same internal version across changing dates.
Objects leave the room. No signal returns with direction.
The loop between the machine and me continues anyway.
The line grows longer without becoming a trajectory. Creation remains as the final available movement after choice, capacity, and explanation have narrowed around it.
The album reaches the edge of its medium with no consequence available to record.
then—
