A new pen works nice - for modern redundancy. Which doesn't feel "modern" anymore. There is no feeling anymore. Just Rabbithole Malarkey. Bring back the Russian Melancholy. Leave the Rabbithole Malarkey. I want to hear the night wind again.
Oh people that populate this pathetic life, oh friends, TRAITORS, traders, dealers in junk bonds: not these tones. Let us raise our voices in more pleasing and joyful sounds! Tell me more of the Miraculous Mother Mary in a Muffin - your memory of the virgin's appearance in pastry, in the unholy sanctuary of a bakery, where workers cursed freely. Why common scoffers won't understand boddhisatva gawkers at divinity in chaos. How we're not the morons you think we are, because of our hyping of the Blessed Virgin in the Muffin. How a sign from God is personalizing the uncountable chainlinks of thermodynamic flux, to produce, TODAY of all DAYS, the miracle of Mary! Like shakespeare from a monkey. Why not worship that? Yes, too bad I can't explain it like I could in the old days, when I was sharper and remembered my rap. Quite a burden, being the elder statesmen, and senile spokesman, of religious reverie for its own sake.
Remember when it came out of the woodwork? Listening to a Haydn scale on vinyl, committed to the physical conveyance of a spinning record, a piano sonata on a wax cylinder, sitting next to the parents' stereo at night with headphones, paranoid, eyes darting around, making sure no one could see. When the run was magic. A scale! The artistry, running like a river, a fun-run.
Now the run is a done run, so sayeth the server. The run is just a run, and the feeling has run out of it. Ear tickled, tickled, tickled numb - run is just a run. Thanks for telling me. What do you suggest instead?
And there you have your answer - instantly. Get out of my head. Don't distract me from my speaking engagements with my appreciative minions. Flying monkeys.