Letter to J.

Rata-da-da-dat...Rata-ta-tad...Rat-ta-te-ed.
The gift of mechanical jingles being bestowed upon me .....Unable to shun this power, I accept it with grace. Hour after hour I spend immerssed in the dusty songs that emerged from Pan's box,I question the vallue of words.I want a jingle so pure it breaks the silance into pieces.I wish for no more music except what was heard during the making of this world.I miss that silance so deep ,you could feel it in yourself when the phone was about to ring.My childhood has no soundtrack.For reasons unknhown,I do not remember the sound of ny own voice.I am tired now and shall write no more of it.I shall leave this undone,words never spoken suspended in mid-air...


I spent most of the weekend sleeping and I feel more tired than ever.Three more weeks of working in retail.For now,I'm slaving away and counting the days.

I feel so alone tonight, I have to tell the world about it.

That is all, c'est ne pas grave.