« Back to bedroom, to happy accidents and magic errors. I turn the tape. I record over Bob Dylan, Syd Barett and in Beck’s grave. I take out the drum machine, the flanger and the accoustic guitar. Caffeine, nicotine. Garbage bags under the eyes, where kids sing swinging. Anxiety of passing time. Pitched boy, reverse woman.
Take it as a trip. A colony of ants through the bloodstream. A yoghurt pot burst on your hair. Baby whale cum against an obstructed sky.
Effervescent, multicolored nails parings. Sun in your mouth.
I play according to my own rules. I walk in the footsteps of my home. That’s how records catch fire. »