How can silence or expression stop or start here for anyone?

[sovay]

I could be a lot physically happier right now, but I finally transferred all of my music off of Bertie of blessed memory's hard drive and onto this still new and nameless machine so that I can listen to audio I have been missing for more than a year, which at the moment appears to mean a whole lot of primarily Boston-scene punk of the '70's and '80's and the 1993 BBC Radio 3 Sunday Play of Tom Stoppard's Arcadia because nothing cheers me up like hearing art school dropouts make weird noises and Bill Nighy moan, "Fucked by a dahlia!" The latter gives me a good excuse to link to this fic, which like everything else I read for Yuletide in 2023 got overlooked at the time. The former is currently making me feel a little unstuck, but it could also just be the state of my blood sugar. Have some Salem 66.

Comments

[sovay]

I'm pondering alternating POV in my remaining wordcount which is a fool's choice so: art is subjective!

You have been sending me art for decades! I was referring to your not actually dropped out child finally showing me his foxes and ceramics, which I take as a gesture of trust and also they're great.

Mine is, however, indisputably better for my having dropped out of art school, and for your input.

*hugs*

(This is my vote for alternating POV.)