#spinster

Consider, for instance, the languid “Many a Happy Hour,” with its hovering plinks of string tones (piano, I think). These notes decay as you hear them, fraying into the sort of overtones that seem to come from the past. You think of summer afternoons, piano music drifting out through billowing curtains. A nostalgia hovers. About a third of the way through, a flute enters, tremulous and full of calm. The cut creates a clean, well-lit space; it encourages the mind to wander.

Or zero in on the slow dawning “Skyline 1” with its low-toned guitar patterns and enveloping waves of sound. It stirs itself to motion, then folds into repose, a glacially paced dance of melody and atmosphere. “Skyline 2” is altogether different, full of breathy altered vocals that zoom and recede in dopplering shifts. It’s gorgeous, meditative and mysterious.

Atrium is the kind of album that you have to make space for. It’s over an hour long and slow to change. And yet, if you enter its sonic space, there’s clarity, beauty, tranquility. Let it take over and you could live in this magic place, letting the long tones slow your heartbeat and still your mental chatter.

• Rumbling as his optics almost shutter, those alien hands are shockingly gentle and soft as you wash him. You hadn’t answered him when he’d asked if you were his conjunx, but he’s almost positive he’d remember that. Be able to sense the bond. So maybe you’re just courting him. Wishes he could remember your name, because he should know. But he suspects it might offend you if he were to admit he can’t remember. Unless this is a pleasure district and playing conjunx is part of the deal? You said you were his friend, though.

• Startling when he leans down and vents loudly, you stare up at him warily. Hadn’t expected this Octane guy you’d been assigned to wash to be so tactile. His big hands on your hips, servos flexing. Probably just curious about humans, though. Not too strange since you’re curious about him. Those red optics are pretty and as they meet your eyes, his battle mask snaps into place suddenly to startle you as he rumbles, the rotors at his back shifting slightly.

• Those soapy hands slide over the mesh of his neck and he tries to remember if he’s ever been so close to an organic before, but then he must have been if he knows you. If you’re his friend. Why can’t he remember? Likes how you smell, though. How soft you are. Hand smoothing up your back, he bends down and you lean away to keep his head from bumping yours. “I can’t remember your name,” he admits and you smile faintly, answering him without judgment. Making him wonder how many times you’ve told him before and he’s forgotten.

• He’s kind of adorable in a very confused way, you decide. “Alright. Let’s get this over with. I have some ground rules.” Startling at the low growl from behind you, you’re looking over your shoulder at the huge mech stepping into the stall with a scowl. And the stranger freezes, staring at you straddling your assigned mech. Only. You’re suddenly not so sure this even is your mech. Not with the way that one’s optics slowly narrow and his wings lift, looking undeniably pissed. Right before he starts yelling about human infidelity and the mech you’re straddling snarls, arm curling possessively around you as his rotors flare.

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