By Daniel Shapiro

I could map the evolution of my guitar sound by pulling a page from a refrigerator manual. My chocolate-in-peanut butter moment: a kitchen jam during which I got too close, felt the interference of compressor cutting in line, evaporator fan motor shouting answers without raising its hand. Through my amplifier, their unkempt voices became a gospel choir, faith that bypasses an atheist's heart. We all hear spirits while we try to get to sleep. I scoop mine from the frost, stuff them in a crate for roadies to tote. I would go hungry to tear coolness down for its parts.