"New York Movie" 1939.
Edward Hopper
In Room 7 of Miramar, the light just to fix the green reality on the walls of fabric red. When I say green, I mean the flood. I cling to retain the fiction. The end credits which is spreading again, help me. He drags a wire twisted sounds hoarse guts out of a Tom Waits where my soul drinks from puking in the home.
Just a small change ... and I slid into the chair that bends like a nest. I love me like an egg while the audience around, it tears. For him, the light made its taf.
Tom's piano has been drinking. He drank it all and "spotlights look just like a prison break. Euclid barrow it in my head and gravelly voice fade away in to a blow ups that zoom in on the piano of Herbie Hancock. I note in passing, but am not sure that the carpet needs a haircut.
I do not care, and balance my life on the piano has been drinking, drunk it all yet. And Tom reappears, hit me on the shoulder, offered me a glass of bourbon or bloody Alice. A toast. A toast on the watering and Kurt Weill lights. I have a Brecht in the neck, Bandini in the heart, the party can begin! Outside is too banana. The gardener was responsible for learning to drive.
Y has the wind in the canvas and the projectionist has passed karcher. Everything is white now. I made my theater room 7 of the Miramar as you make love to forget the day ... icts light looks just like a prison break. Cold. We drank it all, even the piano. I get home.
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