Retroactive memory score

Faint memories of wood-panelled bars in Itaewon, absurdly coherent and outfitted in otaku-like manner, down to glinting silver tie pins and accurately replicated figure-eight moves of the Boston shaker, cheered on by three tipsy women in cream-colored dresses. The illusion of truthfulness and simplicity, of one here and one now, is profound. At the same time, a high-resolution rendering of a contemporary future is revolving on the other side of the sliding door.

Suspension monorailways moving in the distance, jittery graffiti illuminated by flickering xenon tubes. Square shoulders gently forcing their way. A multitude of scurrying feet in high heels and pristine white sneakers, knitted by servo arms in the not too distant factory halls of east Asia. The engine of a black Aventador revvs up into a booming drone. Billowing cargo trousers, heavy boots threading the ground with sawtooth soles, a squad of soldiers in mirage camouflage emerges and disappears in the crowd.

Many white stairs down, at Hangangjin station, aseptic cathedral spaces, cavernous and immaculately clean like the flight deck of a deserted space frigate. Both sound and silence are amplified. An escalator quietly lifts me towards the starry night sky. On the upper deck, the air is perfectly still.

Later, as my cab crashes into a small transporter, spatial memories whizz past. Exhaling, I leave the wreckage and join the bustling sidewalks and the lights of Night City, amidst everything and alone in the matte gray night.

(Über eine EP und einen Track von ASC, und über meinen Hang, Musik und Raumwahrnehmung miteinander zu verbinden.)

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