The putrid smells, and urgers to urinate. Little nasty buggers. Always with green and grey hell met hats. They torment, in torpid unshaved chins. Bang bang bang. They bark, and order, to order, to a distinct format of speech.
And so, this is Yet Saturday, and I can still be transformative. A massajiating spell of breath, in and out of air. And a standing spray, of liquid trancendence in shower steam. Not yet the cameras of today, to capture a precice moment of soft harkenings. But yes, Sven. The noise box. Always a pocket nesecity, still attempting to fit it.. to
But none of my ukuleles snap back into position, to play.