I sit at my window and look over a shipless sea.

But pervading the whole track is an array of individual voices (voice-unders?), filling the sonic space with life, many of them back-of-the-throat squawks and gurgles, others comically ululating melismas (part cartoon, part pseudo-operatic: sirens for the age of the pop diva?), all of them strangely positioned in frame of reference between the simian and the avian.

[…] I saw Rosita and José, hand in hand, doing a sort of gloaty, derisive fandango for the torturing of Pete.

He could see the writing on the wall months before the business failed.