In a room without windows or furniture, Beow sits on the floor with a Casio PT82, a set of screwdrivers, a soldering iron, switches, potentiometers and a handful of dust bunnies. Sounds are collected, stacked into piles and covered with dust and ashes. The smell of melting plastic is the only sustenance he takes. After a time a man stands outside and Beow slides the sounds under the door, trying not to scuff them too badly. (...)
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