Yesterday night was Hostel Night. Celebrations. Drinks. Toasts. Laughter. Tears even, they said. Strummed three tunes. They choked in their dance. The electric whimpered too. The stone was stone.
Later, the rooftop. The stars. The clouds. Tagging them with shapes. Burdening them with meaning. I am certain of my loneliness now. Any many company, any much talking can't make me not alone.
So no grief.
No desire for shapes.
I’m not your larder. I’m Alife your guarder.
Yes grief. For the no grief. I am scared of having turned ice. I don't want a frozen heart.
Alife my larder. I can't forsake you or forsqueak you.
- Robert Wyatt. Rockbottom.