A riff appears in front of you, swooping around purposefully in the undergrowth. The leading edges of its wings are both sharp and slightly blurred with wodge at the same time: you’ve found what you came for.
You pounce, cup the riff between fat hands and thrust it deep into your enchanted bumbag*. There; close to your loins, where it will stay warmed and safe. As you move off up the hill, you can hear and feel its polyrhythmic movements from within as it seeks to break free. A smile cracks wide on your peaky face.
For you know the power of the bumbag: it’s a gift that literally keeps giving. Once filled, it never empties. Now, each time you take a riff from its confines, another will take its place. One juicy riff now becomes infinite juicy riffs, spanning all past, present and future keys and time signatures. Every time you reach inside, a new aural algorithm springs forth to be harnessed for its energy, dynamism and sexuality.
With a brand spanking riff for every occasion, you realise there is no longer a need for words. Never again do you utter a sound from your mouthbox, as language gives way to riffage and riffage puts on language’s clothes. Any subtle nuance of expression; any outpouring of emotion; the enchanted bumbag brings forth an exactly appropriate earworm. There are no more misunderstandings because everything is immediately and profoundly clear.
But right now, in this moment, you are tired. Sleep is coming. Tomorrow, you must fill your magic kettle with cymbals…
Riffs riffs riffs
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