The poetry of V. Leac seems suspended somewhere in between humor, absurdity, and a light and tender perplexity in the face of those minuscule exceptional instances in one’s life. Every next step is a trustworthy transgression toward an uncertain, promising and yet deluded future. In the shape of a musical/sonic performance, we take upon ourselves to read his poetry, with warm loudness and other means tangible while standing on our toes: a performance in the guise of a duo of voices for a spoken-choir simulacrum, using drawing as percussion, some recordings from inside a piano, and a double bass.

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