WARM-UP IS OVER
All the mystery of my mastery could be tracked down through the content of my old leather bag. The faults of the past abound. Mistaking a cradle for a coffin is a common trade. Soiled and cracked bare feet. Squeaky parquet underneath. Desolate saccharine reflections, sugarcoated almonds, lollipops, candy floss . . . What else . . . Sugar cane and sweet sorghum shattered to pieces on the shining floor. My feet go sugary, get sticky. Sickly bright yellow the light outside is violently harsh. Why this description . . . Any purpose . . . To whom do I channel these words. . . Most likely to her fingertips who will type them on the keyboard. How relevant these words would be once transmitted neatly onto a fucking computer screen . . . Certainly the screams and moans coming from upstairs wouldn't be able to change my mind. On the contrary . . .