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.