train of consciousness comes back from the hinterlands around 18 uhr 30 and apparently i'm hosting a party; some capital D Dumbass with no sense of context is tryna hit on me sayin some dumb shit, makin' claims, suppositions, purportions like "the oboe is the most sexual instrument" blah blah so i get this thought, right. i get this thought in my head that maybe some parties should become that kind of party for someone and maybe i'm the one that has to pull the lead for that to happen
so wordlessly i grab'em by the collar and lead them into my bedroom's antechamber. high white walls, marble floors, good chandelier, unnaturally much lighting, you get the point. tryna induce a dreamlike state thru interior decorating. anyway, there's a couple people sitting around, get away from the noise type thing, maybe go home a little wetter than they came, i don't know, i don't do "people" (so i don't know why any of this is happening really.) so i direct with my hands, go sit down with the others, and i seat myself on this fine red velvet ottoman in the middle of the room and start playing this perfect like mathematically sound glass harp, all whisper-thin fragile dangerous glass strings and everything, not a fleck of metal on her, and it sounds like shit. everyone's looking at me now and the cat's about to get up and go spin the wheel again. the scene is horrible, strings are cutting through my fingers like butter, noise like ice cracking and meat getting chewed, there's blood everywhere and i'm sweating more than i usually do, which is described usually as "profane and requiring prescription coverage about the face and arms"
but after about 34 seconds, the strings are completely covered in my springtime humour, and the sounds start workin like how they're sposta. the kid stops leaving and looks at me, eyes agape, mouth also agape, excretory functions we can only theorize about. stands there for what is starting to feel like an eternity, i can't actually do this for that long yo unless i have a vested interest in the physical appearance of my phalanges, 'til graciously turns tail and flees, hollerin' bout the spheres or somethin'. i don't know. everyone goes back to their business and i put my gloves back on. never see lil' oboe-lover again though. fuck oboes