The pulse, the profession. The soft silk glow.

I’ve written, reversed and been spat out. Re-chewed like a tatted ended bit of meat that situates itself in the reduced isle of the supermarket, owning that large flamboyant yellow sticker. The critically  acclaimed piece. Not yet rotted on the shelf but still no body purchased. Instead, disintegrated into tiny speckles of dust that was far more excellent than the tit bit. Like a bitten tit. Or a blue tit –  the bird that took flight.

When we take on someone else’s pain we need to be reminded of a true sense of self. Who are we? Where are we going? Where have we gone? What are we doing?

Ladies and gentlemen, can we please keep together.

The Doctor calls your name in the waiting room, loudly enough for all to here. Everyone looks at him suddenly and all those pivoting heads search for the vulnerable one.

You stand alone in the room when all that is heard is the aftermath; the embarrassing silence and fluttering worlds, and words of your inner self that only escape all of the time, a reoccurring nightmare – ones elves unconsciousness in the publics domain. This is me and mine. Yours and your own fuelled by the self – undertaken and underestimated but yet overworked. You’re about to enter the unknown.

Thank you for being there when I needed you most, now everyone can applaud, I hear a faint snare and Soul Eyes tunes in with the unexpected yet apparent legato piano arpeggios. Conltraines contagious efforts to ease the one  with the fizz. The melody takes over.

Until the next name is called. And the winner is … congratulations you did it. The trumpet can now solo. You are the future of the industry but what am I with my commitment?

The Ocean View Hotel looks nice as the eyes begin to close as Gordon enters, Stairway to the what? Theres no ocean view, I guess its all in the name. But it looks pretty.

I see darkness as the floor trembles. The butt of the cigarette glows its golden glow as Dexter draws in near.Theres a party in my something percent capacity. I guess its higher than 20. Twisted and turning she stands alone and needing of more. Alone she stares into the smoke-like a bird of the night, caught by the wings inside the smog of the city; cosmopolitan colours and uncanny colleagues. The emptiness burdening upon me like a ton of steel falling from great height. She’s cold but dives in. Invisible but leaves, a bold trace of herself. Floating on the surface she’s calling for help although does not speak. Gordon leaves.

Feed yourself but clean your mess–those sheets must stay white. I cannot hear anything anymore. The beat is back yet drowning in three four time. It’s black and white.

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