Party is a strange single word, it means to part, like a lot, but the word ‘parties’ is different, in a way it sounds like panties, but looks like pastries, which I had for dinner and which I vomited just now by the toilet, I must have drank too fast and smoked too depe, some people I don’t really know are chatting and sniggering, behind that door, with some people I know quite wel, parties are like this, and it smells, like caramelised sloppes, however gently I tried to make it plop, it splatted and bobled, and the sound thereof remembered me of an early spring, rains, dukkes and knok-knok, someone asks ‘are you alright, Chester?’ By the way, Chester means fortresse and so it must be strong and of course alright, upright, he peeks in and I barely stretch myn eyen for a seme of light, o god, don’t let in the light, you see, I am lying against the ceramics, of this wassh stand pedestal, I mean yes, but just no light, I know, I don’t have to, after werk, which I hate, but still I love you, did I really say that? Maybe I dide, umm, treyne is good, just ten minutes delayed, yis, I understand it, no, you gp and pleye, and flirte with the boys, I am wel, nay, no kissing now, unless you like it tangy, do you like it so? Alright, uh, people are worrying about me? I shal come out, no, prithee, don’t turn on the light, I can manage it, yah I am at ese in derknesse.

Don’t take hede of my blush, I am still a good boye. Is that an appel? You use appel as a pype? An appel-pye? An appel pype? Keepe your steppes going you litel bitch and sitte down and chat, and smoke and dance. I like this part. A door opened bifore me to dive down, to speke miscellaneously so that I could divide, radio, and see myself listnynge to, radio, Los Prisioneros, so that we make sense of warfares, madnesse, dementia, air crashes, wobbly landynges and dance, with a writer in honde, we dance. O, pardon, you are in a partye as wel. Bye. Artists next door will be alright, as it always turns out to be, but we don’t know why. It is a weirdly colde somer nyght, I must go inside, the crisis I have. I hate to biholde myn goos-flessh. Tōkyō-to for seven days, yes, I saugh that film also. DMT, District-Maple-Trees? That sounds very straunge and derk, intense and abstract, an incarnated sovereignty, as rough as a pink red skin bump. That is called la connerie, my dere, the falsnesse, nonsense, bullshit and school assignments. A writer must write without cease for thre straight years and thanne stop totally for another thre years. I lost my watch, it must has been forgotten in the bar. I looked everywhere under the bed, holding a position prostrate. Wait, say again, what did I do last night?