Inside the water tower a certain spirit sits. Not on the floor, but a foot above the ground. Cross-legged, across her arms are two guitars. Four hands, all pulling, plucking, strumming these guitars. Notes cluster, clutter on and throughout the dome, knotting and unraveling in and out of her matted hair. Underneath her the city sleeps. Lights flickering, lamps buzzing, but still these guitars chime on and on.
One day the Charalambides lower a tape recorder into this water tower. This eastern spirit plays on, aware of the recorder, and secretly pleased with the attention. For days and days she plays, and for days and days this recorder records. Slightly fearful of the contents, Tom and Christina Carter extract the tape. At first disturbed, then awed at the tape, they carefully edit the tape into this fine document I have on my desk. I salute these intrepid explorers, and invite you, dear listeners, to touch this slice of the divine.
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