wouldn't it be nice to be staccato?
wouldn't it be good to bounce in place?
wouldn't you feel great while burning bridges?
while tasting sweat of a dancing face?
a child asked me today:
tell me, what is staccato?
my plug-in suddenly stopped working.
like when you're naked and somebody's lurking.
hell…
i don't really know.
i can't tell.
all i can do is... show (when we meet a staccato)...
but i find a… a piece of software…
how do they call it… a patch?
so i don't lose the match (against this little nightmare).
...and, honey, i'm not gonna lie:
all you have to do is... try. (yes, i'm a wise guy.)
is it really fun to be staccato?
to lack legato on your face?
to die with each day?
and with each awakening to pluck the thorn and thrust your history away?
hell…
i don't really know.
well…
even staccato has to flow (sometimes… i guess… to be staccato.).
so… staccato is a mess as well?
wouldn't you be tired of being staccato?
only staccato?
and i think to myself:
yes, what a boring tune...
to have no months but june.
i guess it's like being deaf.
(deaf equals not being able to hear what a wonderful world.)
well…
stacc, stacc, stacc, stuck…
you can be stuck in staccato.
but i can't really tell.
you kind of…
hell...
why are you asking me these questions?
no reason. just…
i'm just wondering who i am.
rondo alla turca is not one hundred percent staccato.
it's perfect to be alla turca. you could be that.
you mean, to go marching?
with turks?
the kid is perplexed, as expected.
march, april, may…
they can all be a nice time of the year.
to march and smell milky blood in the hay
you don't always need a spear.
blood in your cheeks can feed your slurps,
it's not about the turks.
i'm irritated.
the kid is contemplating.
not jaded (as i am). seeing my face, but not in a sulk.
i mean… what's wrong with playing? (leave me alone…)
…
…
...
tell me…
what is happiness? and what is fear?
ooooooooooohhh, dear…
i don't really know, but…
…
…
...
