One birthday song stretched across forty-two years. Nothing is stored and nothing is streamed — the position is worked out from the clock, so whenever you arrive you hear the moment the piece is at, not the beginning. Close the tab and come back in a decade; it will have gone on without you. The field is the sound itself, and it corrodes a little more every year.
source: “it’s your birthday!”
by monk turner + fascinoma
cc by 3.0
· time-stretched, otherwise unaltered