After so long it becomes harder to say new things about older things you now just do. Some things you've become. Some things you simply (never simply) are. The thing becomes a slippery notion. The self slides along with it. After this long, the story is whatever are the songs.Here are 11 new ones, from the current constellation, and a future still to come. The cement is still wet on that one.From the forest near where I now live you can hear a chorus of different birds in voice at once, competing but each defined, in defence of a territory or to attract a mate. There's an app that tells you so. I wonder, too, what that app doesn't reveal, if their nature need not share those same purposes. This is simply (never simply) how it exists. If we can't speak to the mysteries of these strategies, they at least persist, regardless of who picks up the frequency. Singing to itself, and there will always be these kinds of songs.Self-portrait at two decades. For Roman P.