You wanted Frankenstein, I have a whole gallery of monsters. I have the harps of angels, taken from their bare hands, sometimes “with” their bare hands, I keep them in plastic bags, there’s good money for them in the black market.
We will not talk, we will not interrupt, the flow of music will be my voice, my mystery will be solved, if not densed. I’ll be the melodies, but will take no other part in the scenery.
All else is reserved for later, for another place in time, if we so desire. This night is booked for music, nothing else. No distractions allowed, not a kiss will be exchanged, neither feet rubbed, nor harsh beard scratching perfect skin. It will not be about that. It will be about the most ethereal part of us.