Music on streets tonight. 

Sometimes he comes, the violin player, 

When everyone sleeps. 

But if I am asleep and gone then how come I am listening to this? 

It can’t be dreams, 

i am still responsive to winds and fluorescent flashes. 

The code’s broken…and he isn’t that good either,

it’s like he is making fire out of wood friction. 

But I am no one to complain, I am not going to tell people about the twisted sorcery…

At nights when I feel only birds in my stomach…I know he will be the only movement I will see…

His lame craft should be kept in obscurity, 

for he is the last craftsman I am left with.

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