Here, today, we return to the book of fusion. We return to Miles Davis and the words that he wrote on the mountainside—how they told of a world without skin, a world sun-bruised, its bedrock rippling in rhythmic, red beats. A world whose dirt is made from the juiced human collective!
We return not to reiterate these inborn certainties, but to examine how they distort with changing time and context. Perhaps they dilate beneath the microscope. Perhaps they wriggle. Perhaps they assume our future forms. This is the drama of analysis.
