Word Automat

We hold forth or we curse, and that is that. Not a man — a verbal automat. A conveyor of sounds, a text farm. Product of discharge, thought-sperm, slurred and spilling out, it builds around well, absolutely everything! Comfort, friends, girls hanging around. On the assembly line or in the workshop room? Creating, or just pushing a broom? When you create, there's not much left to say. You live as if you'd stepped out of a dream, the way you haul all the impossible into the real day that you paint yourself, and live in it, and stay.