Glued to the inside of your mouth this very moment (there's a 50% chance) may be plump bacterial caterpillars. They cling to your cheek with paired little holdfasts, like the feet of a tomato hornworm resolutely clasping its stem.
“I have a suggestion for you that comes from your own world. It is that I am only a symptom. I am not the disease. By treating me as you would like to, you will not remove the root causes of your anger, which I suspect are insecurity and borrowed shame.”
I should have known, therefore, that it was a Wednesday unlike any other—that the world was about to change—when, at the end of the day, I poked into the studio to turn off the lights, and found the synthesizer still wired up.