This is about forgetting, about a home that has ruined itself. As a white hound tends to his elliptical leaves, trimming the spots that come out too hard, with an older composer that could wear the hell out of a tuxedo even though his sister in law slept around the city hall that kept on maneuvering in and out of thin hallways adorned with faintly red spider webs. Holding up a register of mystery's that made you want to be more interesting then you already could have plugged in a few records which would sum up the last relationship you had already condemned, pushing the snow from the center of the brass tub who had edited versions of an old composers old tuxedo. Chopped up a fish with a sharp spoon, made a dish that sat on the head of an erect diagram, so that the head of a flaccid hunter could come screaming to a switched up stop.