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Sometimes when I stare into the tummy of your guitar I envision myself diving straight down the rabbit hole into another dimension where I could find you, really. Really if I could crawl around in there I bet I could find your friends, too, guitar picks wanting what I want and slipping into your abyss, changing your sound. 'Sounds like quite the adventure, Alice,' you'd say to me, unaware that I was already so far gone. Gone are pieces of plastic you used to play for/to people... no, into. Into the circle that's partially responsible for the seductive sound you create to control the crowd, we go willingly - what is wrong with this picture? Picture the capacity for change, a single sliver of six-string silence. Silence you know not of, out of choice.