A beat. A slow rhythm pumping through my veins. Through my head, through my ideas of existence. An old instrument from a lost continent of lost tones, which finds it’s way directly to my fragile head. A humble line across time and space with no other meaning than mine. I got headphones. I got an I-pod. I know bicycles. I know gutters and newspapers and beercans and crimescenes and sunsets and bacon and eggs and it’s all very hard to get. There I am. On my bicycle across well-known land heading for an unknown future. But with the unmistakable sound of a personal beat in my ears. A confident rhythm keeping me pushing the envelopes and the pedals, It’s not a joke, and I know it. It’s a well hidden secret between me and the drums and the vocal. I don’t recognize the lyrics, they’re too hard to get, too insisting, too direct, so ungraspable. I don’t know them. I don’t know a single word of this song I’ve heard a hundred times before. I hope it’s about hope. I hope I’m told about unknown frontiers and unspeakable truths. I fear fear and the hopelessness . I fear and I hope, but I don’t listen, I just bounce, up and down, a subtle little movement on my saddle of pure ecstatic excitement of the break to come.
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