Very late it began to rain on better judgment making.

Your foreign friend flicked on the lamp.
Her neck and collarbone are burning
to show their softness. Her hair seems partible
emitting an innocence that blasts.
This is a loose translation, drawing on pitch-black rumors about your life. You planted them yourself.

How was it to go on and record the full soundtrack, none of the script? Was it like writing from a retrieval search with different data trees leading to a sensual spy novel — amusing and telegenic for killing time, so let’s narrate that. And about that. That meta-tick-tock due now and pronto — calling in Cupid — the greatest emcee and dues collector of any young century, sullen, endearing..