Process.

This is my first interview. I'm not sure I follow.

In relation to what, exactly?

People aren't usually interested in that sort of thing.

Which tapes are those?

I can't remember the tapes. I haven't made music for decades.

And they've resurfaced?

Fans?

Not warped?

You're everywhere at once.

I'm amazed they're still audible. I can remember the drawer I put them in, but not how I made them, or what they were called.

I think one had a name like 'Panshaker', or 'Panscraper'.

I don't do music any more, you see. I tried to become an architect instead.

Twilight is something I've never quite figured out.

I've always wondered if any of it was worth pursuing, if anything was likely to come next.

Of course there are pitfalls, of course. But overall... no...

I never got my head around what it was people actually wanted to see. Sometimes, as you get older, you realise you don't want to be yourself.

I'm not following.

I pretended those tapes really meant something, but didn't believe it. Shame they surfaced so late.

I'm an architect now, you see. Well, retired architect. When I worked it was to make sure that -

I really do think it's alright. I can't complain. I shouldn't complain.

People have killed for less, I'd say.

I have more time.

I'm not sure at what point I put it away, out of sight.

Play it, if you like. I'll try to keep up.

I can't remember which speed it was originally meant to be played at.

I've been told a different tempo can make all the difference.

The sense that whatever comes out of your mouth next, no matter how strange the shape, it's been said before, many times.

I don't understand quantum things.

I suppose that's why I gave it up in the end. Kicked my attention down other avenues. I gave myself up. People always need buildings. Started doing the kind of drawing that matters. Started doing things that get away with pretending to matter, without mattering at all.

It's been said that, when people listen closely, they often find themselves thinking about unfinished projects of their own.

I should have taken more walks. It's always possible to go further afield. I think we should always be looking towards the afield.

How are you supposed to start a project?

It was always the blank page. That always mattered more than anything that came next. Once you have that, you have it all.

The moment a line is drawn you lose the original conception, the impossible stuff that drives the whole show, gone just as the show starts.

Everything I've made has been sheer pain. Nothing ever went up easy. Every project means sharpening teeth and stretching limbs, not in a way that's comfortable.

I've tried to design structures that lift people.

Yes, I think in some small way -

They say I've ballooned these past few years. Can't stand the sight of myself. Can't stand the sight of them, either.

I run further and slower. It feels regressive, the sort of thing children should be doing.

I never had children. Thought they'd probably end up getting in the way. Not that I think it made much difference in the end, might as well have had one or two.

Irreparably, or so I once read.

My firm presented me with an award last year. It means my name goes in the company brochure. I might even get a plaque, something for future employees to remember me by, though they'll never have met me, so I'm not sure 'remember' is the right word. But it could be there for years. Just my name. Etched on a metal plate.

Who said this?

"... how else can we live?"

"Sometimes I write in the dark. At first it would come as a shock to turn on the light and see how big all the writing looked on top of each other or falling off the page."

I can stop now, I don't need to say any more than that.

A reasonable pension.

Not much really, can't say I've given it too much thought. I don't like detritus.

A few of them phone me when I least expect it. Some of them have sort of dropped off.

Blossom-end rot. I've read about it in gardening magazines.

Less rice.

Looking back, I really am far less than I've projected myself to be. In fact, it's pretty much all projection.

I struggle to understand how the recordings still exist. I thought I saw them buried. Earth on top of earth, before my very eyes.

My parents discouraged me from pursuing a career in anything that didn't speak for itself.

I grew up around kind people who gave everything and asked for nothing.

I try to call home four times a year, once a season, let them know I'm still going. We never have that much to talk about. I end up talking about myself.

I never really understood pride, what it was all about. Another reason I should have had children. They teach you that sort of thing.

You can see what it really means to them, somewhere deep within the eyes.

They would never have allowed it. That's why it's so strange hearing those tapes now - it's a reminder of a part of me that wasn't allowed to carry on.

You know how a fast-moving train, whilst travelling through a tunnel, is surrounded and preceded by its own roar? Its noise becomes a separate kind of animal, fiercer than the object it was made by. It sort of overshadows everything it once depended on. I think that's the sort of thing I was trying to capture in those tapes. How am I supposed to explain that to them?

The way the noise of everything becomes too much, too fast. Yes, I can understand that.

You see, that all came about as a result of something to do with my skin. I get these small bumps, kind of, like spots, but not spots, perhaps blocked pores, swollen hair follicles, who knows, you don't really notice them unless you look close, they don't itch or hurt or anything, but I can't leave them alone, drives anyone who knows me mad, they tell me off for picking at them whenever I get a chance, pinching the skin until it bruises, but I keep thinking about what's beneath the bumps, there must be something there otherwise the skin would be flat, but even if there is something there, underneath the surface, it's not worth picking at, not worth leaving a mark for, it's still just cosmetic.

Difficult to say. We live in different times. I suppose this is probably where I should say something about technology, how it's changed everything.

Do you have the numbers to hand?

Please, tell me.

I let a few friends listen at the time. Everything that made noise was exciting back then. I don't think anyone was that impressed.

I imagine so.

I'm going to lie down for a while. Been struggling with my balance quite a bit recently. Metaphorically speaking, you understand. I can still walk around without falling over.

I don't think I really know how to answer your question.

In the sense of 'Was it all worth it?'

I saw a funeral being conducted remotely the other day, via video-link. There were fractals of grief. The connection was weak. It was more moving because of all that, I think. Not being able to hear or see everyone properly.

I never thought I'd make it as far as I have. I won't be leaving much behind. Buildings, unless they're cathedrals, don't tend to last more than a few generations. Songs die even younger.

Thing that struck me was how no one mentioned what the deceased did for a living. It wasn't mentioned once. People just talked about other things.

Where did you say you found them? How did they resurface?

I don't know how I feel about all of that.

I feel lifted.

The one that -

Feels strange having something break the surface.

I'm sorry. Thank you for your time.