We are surrealists, carrying the sacred box of literature to those who will never read it. What are we doing with those words, no… those sentiments that we dig up from those who went before us. You are the torn up letters of books I have read before and scream out loud to hear the ghost that you were.
You stole my time and so I’ll steal from you. I’m sorry.
I have looked in all those reference books and dictionaries that once took our ears by surprise and made us cry by the full moon. I kick my heels while you finish your lines and our friend sleeps on the bed lost.
But I will not be the first to point at him, and nor can you be – we have been there before.
And I am so happy to be here, writing with genius, listening to giants of an electronic age.