closing my eyes to Possibly Maybe. Dreaming. Day-style. I memorize a song I sang in the factory:
i look to the moon-
high up, high-
sky- eyeing-
high up, high-
postless lampost
of the cosmic highway-
I wish on your rent-a-light-
I wish for a baby-
two meters high-
pays the bill-
and old-like wise-
a baby-
two meters high-
dressed to kill-
and old, likewise.
The afternoon break has ended. The torture continues.
