out here in the ocean of verst, it’s not always a constant tsunami of sound. sometimes the better angels of our nature—as lincoln called them—rise up from the murky distorted depths with a quieter offering. loaves and fishes, if you will. picture a shimmering school of beached mackerel, gasping for air in the gentle moonlit surf. nearby a loaf of david gates’ bread, fresh off the continental shelf, slowly dissolves in the salinity of divinity.

a new track, then, yes?