the dreaming glitching thing

I’m up on the 3rd floor of old house, watching woman down below in street on her knees scrubbing the steps of her door in torrential rain so that the act itself is worthless. Pop Smoke’s Dior song is playing on the blue tooth speaker by her side. She looks up and gestures angrily at the poster I have stuck to the window, which is promoting an old-school hip hop venture with political / subversive leanings. I have got the aesthetic wrong apparently, something to do with transparency, and she does not agree with the anti-materialistic message I am trying to convey. We work hard to look good and there is nothing more to life she shouts up.  This triggers doubt on the words I have set myself to compose, the lyrical flow, as part of the project, and I try to write words that relate, apply, to a just arrived at the age of 60 year old, white male of privilege, who can’t help but see things from a slightly skewered angle. A party whirls around me as I write. The weather has broken outside, here comes summer, i have new clothes to wear from Universal Works and Albam and a pair of almost science fiction white shades from Han Kjobenhavn