I have accepted the guitar. Guitar into outer space and back again, in solitude. Gracious to the Eternal Whine or something.... DESPITE THIS ACCEPTANCE, I drift back to computer music.
The hot lights burn, the smell of iron hangs heavy in the air. The fighter stands half naked in the center of the ring, alone. Moments earlier, his bloodied opponent’s limp body was carried offstage by muscular nurses, leaving the victor alone with the carnage. Of course, the fighter is not alone, since the brawls take place in the public eye.  The once-roaring crowd stutters to a harsh silence. The cameras cease to flash. The fighter takes his gloves off before removing his mouth guard and turns on his heel once, searching for the crowd. He is blinded by the spotlights steadily following him as he paces back and forth like animals bred in captivity do. The stage has been evacuated. Steaming, in the lens, the fighter is alone. The referee is nowhere to be found. He raises his naked fists up, eyes unfocused. Trapped! 
This show is dedicated to Chadwick Rantanen.