The feet

May 2nd, 2011

Speech call. Is that not how all graphomaniacs start? Hearing the
call. No. Feeling the itch. Better now.
The old radio. Tune between FM frequencies, but no song. Not a one
damn song. All babble. All pussy, tit, love love love, till vomit or
ejaculate. Same thing. That don’t arouse me anymore. So much the
better. Switch to short waves. Shift amidst stations, static, find the
beatings, now, some song, at least at last. Some play. What else (one
needs)? Some rice, some onion, some carrot, if that. One don’t need
much, when one prepares. Turn the radio off.
Some tea, cheap tasteless tea, pour water, all is good. A cigarette,
all is better. Then the sky, less cloudy, the better. Waiting.
Such are waiting times.
Maybe the mountain, some sea. One needs less, when preparing. Or,
even, better, not getting wasted. Clean in old cloths. Some little
light and far city ambiance.
Itch stopping.
Not wasted. Not.

[audio:|titles=1. trASh piANo 1]

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