Maybe you don’t get why I ask you or maybe you do. I want your sound. Your charred splattered raggedy ann and andy inconsolable fits of pupil-dilated-passion. I desire blaring bashing slippery diddly bow ‘crawling king snake’ shambolic pure beautiful wrecking ball irascible ‘caucasian white’ noise. The nectar of the black and charred anti-gods. The unapologetic unpolished reckless dispossessed lethargic apathetic impassioned blitzkrieg that is Don Howland. Fuck tamed whipped domesticated supine. I desire harmful shards of mirrored whimsical ‘are you experienced’ undulating broke down filthy glorified trash pouring out of the pin-needle-rectum of a nicotine stained unfiltered unimpressed lumpy camel. The nickelodeon bewailing moan created when two hands stop clapping and start punching. Not violently, but still very much determined. Determined to figure some way out of this shit-stained-storm of irrelevant delusional hypocritical opiate of the ill-tuned uninformed low-rent unresponsive mass-incarcerated-masses. Static fuzz am radio howling manic hacking showers of resplendent melancholia. I am not fucking crazy. You don’t collaborate and I don’t pursue unless I’m certain there is something worth going after. Just give it a try and if nothing comes of it we never have to speak of it again. The dead have all the time (in this world and the next) to wait and overdose on smoke rings from a genocide of pop-goes-the-weasel bingo parlors and mom and pop ghetto-storefronts gone belly up.