Where it is told that…
§ An old song of Jackson Browne (I think it was The load-out from Running on empty) and a huge wall of tears that suddenly gobbles each and every drop of voice up. Why and why for ? Such an old saw. Shivers and almost moaning. Nope. Such a fucking nope.
§ I liked to sit down in front of other people, only knowing this very thing, and not laid-out to share it out, for God’s sake ! I liked to feel this tiny clockwork lemon in my fist, or this blinking of my knowledge, insurance, despair and faith. Just. Right. There. Not induced to nor enjoined. Waiting for this very, very moment where routine of the mechanism fits well with the finger of my power. A kind of hazard, a kind of wizard, a kind of trick, miming as an actor the emptiness of every story-telling. There is no more story ; there is no more history ; the is no more necessity, nor are there causes, and consequences. There is only me, strong of myself, and never reassured enough to give me the starring of a backstage line.
§ And suddenly this… song, reaching the part of my… where every flickering of skin means a… I don’t… I… I… I didn’t want, I never wanted to… Jacson Browne sucks, what the heck this little melody is stunning me, busting me like a… I never wanted to… I don’t want to… implode. I implore you not to implode. Help me. Help me not to implode. I would prefer not to.