I live in a sort of cottage when the song in my head is flaming molasses. I have two balustrades. An internal garden. And one in the downstairs backyard. 

My followers know there’s an elevator which is hi society and everyone is houso. There’s a terrace garden in mezzanine level. I look out forlorn to the expanse of the unknown regions which is basically the fucken mall. Widows walk. 

Sure I could regale about vintage radio furniture and imagine I’m iglood to the set playing von Daniken and Janacek and old lightbulbs.

I’m smoking a Doyle pipe, my neighbour? Another pipe. I’m wearing fucking black tweed from twills. My place, to be faithful to the event, is literally in grey and white. I go out to see more chromatics. 

The fake chimney I spoke of is now puffing out spray of logfire to the street because I am a villager in some forest where philosophers and writers and whatever the fuck an outdoorsman is, are mandated by a ministry to get in a crypt. But they deck the halls with CCTV cameras. 

I could leave it at this. The fake forest romance I spoke of earlier. 

The song I hear is about sleepless killers 

Now I can end it. You get the link included. My how I’ve grown. Story is not fake forest one