Liszt Consolation No.3, in D flat major.

When I sat down drunk after tonight's escapades my face was hot and felt fat like a roasted plum. I knew that I was beginning my last days on this Earth. I had a sense of immense sad freedom that put Liszt on the record player. I was listening to a great jazz record earlier, but that doesn't really matter. Nor that I was drinking a poor Verdejo from the shop. Now Liszt was playing and that was a good choice. The end of this story is a good and happy thing, and the start a good and happy thing. The middle is indecipherable, frankly.
That is why I'm offering this coded history to you my friend. So that you may find a rhythm that you know not to play. Or maybe play a little, but not much. Not too much.

A car. A car. It hit the liquorice road and spun like a top and everyone got out safely. It landed on the verge of Hyde Park like a broken tree. The occupants fell out of the doors laughing at their fortune. Fortune is only recognised by the living. I'm not sure about it myself. But that is the prerogative of a deer. A deer stepped out of the car, legs like pipe cleaners, furry and white. People wear things like that now. Then. Now has stopped for me. A tutu of silver silk fluttered by the statue of Byron, but that was the last I saw of that. These people who had just escaped decapitation by inches were dancing to Tchaikovsky on the roadside and in the park.

Breakfast was served, bright yellow eggs and white and a brainy bean symposium all chattering to one another like there was no tomorrow. Then the white-washed walls of the toast crunched onto the plate and all was silent. The only sound, the butter creeping down the walls of the toast.

I lay this nonsense on the altar of gimmickry. Every word a second of time. A note. This is a note. Liszt knows about notes and seconds, and so do you. Just a few hundred thousand seconds before the sea pulls the moon down. My trousers around my ankles like a tide, a pee in the toilet. Who made this toilet? It says Royal Doulton. I feel like I'm peeing on an aristocrat. I don't like peeing on anything except for a garden, because a garden knows how to deal with it.

I am a dripping yolk, running out from under a pure white sheet, looking for the excitement of the beans' union. A community of like-minded individuals clamouring together in their sweet sauce.

Liszt Consolation No.3, in D flat major.