You have no choice but to take the Metro. Each time I come across one of those irresistible booths that charge money to steal your soul ~ provided of course that you have one to steal. And what if this other blue book that is here on the bed as if disregarded and sad? Tomorrow I will use it and write great things, except. STOP. I am not a great writer. STOP. Send message at once. STOP. You suck. STOP. Okay, then, try baby. Oh quit your baby bemoaning the clap track wrong side of the tracks nonsense. The word is weary of your crap and God aren’t you just a little bit too? You never saw him, you know, that stupid fellow who had you head over heels but to what? It wasn’t your investment. God you’re a cold one. Cold fish, sold at the market on Sundays ~ so fresh and slippery. That’s you alright. But the pigeon’s guttural coo; he’s talking to you, or maybe. Or maybe you’re crazy. Yes, that’s it! You are completely nucking futs! Who but you would give two euro about what a pigeon says or thinks or if they speak or think at all. See, you’re still being a boring. I’m bored. Baby, I’m bored. Just buy that album. At least he isn’t boring. At least he doesn’t have conversations with pigeons. Pigeon French. Pigeon Bench. You speak nonsense. You are done for.