Walked-Walk-With-Much-Talk

Marching on: a piano, alone, at the end of a wrecked street. Vapour, like fumes, rising in the cold.

Marching on: at the opposite street's end, an ocean blue, a palm tree, a tropical beach. Air is bright, blue vibrates.

A long way down, it has been, a life, notes, pianos, wars, destroyed civilisations that rose in the heart, all bombed.

A walked-walk-with-much-talk. A random-evolution-trancing-pacing-facing-wow.

At tail's end, is one, on it, now: on life. As it happens. As it steers. On it's tail end. Where improbability rises.

Where all is possible in oceans of black-swans of one-off blasts that forever remain.

Where is that lightning? Where did it go?

This piano touches soul and faster it goes:
- You loose weight. Who do you do it for?
- You have not got love. That, you know, you would do, for you.
- You look at past and future. That, you sense, present is not.
- You want it simple. To start. And to end.

The beach plays with the fumes and there is a lost woman's shoe along the way.
A cinderella taken away by the fast speed of the war.
A whore awake in the early morning.
A woman who got lost on the way home.
The world is dark when it wants to.
Specially at early morning.

When the beach strikes: Take the moment. Be selfish.
Jump on water. Be wet.
Criss-cross the air. Welcome to the day.