FM Mk2, old tape-manipulation patch. Hybridised. A bit dodgy. Needs work.
Words by Matt Hawkins:
Men count their lives like hands
In the blind watches of the night,
The darkened room, the cigarette,
The purple curtain, the lamp’s corona,
Nicotine-dyed fingernails, forgotten heraldry,
Fate in numbers.
Existence is arithmetic: equations, cruel integers,
What do they count but their own slow unravelling?
Calories perhaps, the years of their bondage,
Slowly circling death’s drainhole.
Spoken by me.
Used with permission.
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