A MISSION STATEMENT FROM THE happy jawbone FAMILY BAND

concerning their newest release

In the hotel double tragedy there are always about 10 giant mirrors that are reflecting your name and a perfect sleeper. The room is always awkwardly lit, and the conversation is poor. Most people just complain about the wind and the way it incessantly brings up their failures.

The hotel double tragedy is not easy to find, but we have all been there. It exists somewhere between a whim and a new star. It trembles on a living edge, unaware of itself and the horrors it commits continually, in its sleep. It is always around 3:00 in the morning at the hotel double tragedy. There is always someone whispering in french to someone else who they think is sleeping but who is really dead.

You were there. You were wearing a brand new tragedy you had just devised from dust and some charming shade of pink. You were playing with a mirror and feigning innocence. I wanted to impress you so I summoned a mirror from thin air and dashed it on a rock. Later we both agreed it was in poor taste.

The mirrors at the hotel double tragedy are not like other mirrors. They reek of morning and a certain glare that creeps unashamed. You can always tell when they are near because of the smell and also because they are proceeded by a cloud of fireflies. You said you thought the fireflies were a nice touch. But the fireflies are really made of dust and I am so tired of their glow.

In the middle of the hotel there is a mirror you can hardly come back from. It has a heart of wine, but fingers that work the cruelest touch. Often you pretend it is a kind touch, but no one is fooled. The hoof prints give you away immediately. Also, the ticking is no help. But you act unashamed, and that is enough for now.

Actually, the middle of the hotel double tragedy is a great place for acting unashamed. There are a couple of twins there who are always getting away with murder. They like having fun with the fireflies and eating them in big handfuls so that the glow dribbles from their chins. They are connoisseurs of destruction, but they mean no harm. Often they like most of all to sit up all night, making fun of lovers and dice. They have a trumpet that they polish with blood, but they don't even know how to play the trumpet!

Afterwards they pretend to fall asleep, but really they can't stomach the idea. So instead they lie motionless, imagining their favorite tragedy. One of them likes to imagine a tragedy made of dust so that when it's done it can be lost with the slightest tremble. The other prefers a tragedy made of various glares. There are many different types of glares. There's the bacchic glare, there's the stolen glare, there's the glare of a deathly gesture, the primordial glare, the healing glare, the glare that reduces to dust, the glare off a tired tooth, etc.

when they do fall asleep it is always on the bed that takes the weight of the world. It is a good bed. It was made a long time ago by someone who was very bored. In this bed, anyone could feel like a baby in the middle of a blood-lust. The bed is an expert at blood-lust and also at superstition. It tucks its disquieting fingers behind the heart, revealing the tiny children there, who are always swimming in and out of an ice-cold river, wearing nothing but their innocence and an expression of doubt.

The children have a weakness for gossip and are always recounting all the different tragedies they can remember. (and what they can't remember they make up on the spot and hope no one notices.) These children are built for sleep and they don't care who notices. Also they like to show off by talking in french. I'm suspicious that it's not real french, but am reluctant to confront them on this.

At first you thought the children were pretentious and their antics affected. But then you realized they reminded you of a dream that you once had, which appealed to your superstitious nature. Eventually you became even more obsessed with them than me, though they never really trusted you, and were not ashamed to let you know this. They would talk in a sort of code around you. If they were anxious they would say, “ the cloud is in the raw.” When the wind was too much for them, with the way it would incessantly bring up their failures, they would say, “the shadow is ripening.”

we all agreed about how unfair the wind had been lately.