Till then when it is the next time when I busy myself

Till then when it is the next time when I busy myself I would want to think that this story that I had to started to shout into the ears of the world or did I just whisper it all along all that I know for sure is that I did not hear my voice my own voice but I hope the world and all of that one hippopotamus that had wanted me to say things out loud – speak up it used to tell me all the time – but this story isn’t about that at all but something else that this story indeed is about, that I hope I have been whispering well in the ears of the world and I hope I was good in telling the story and I hope the story was good in itself spoken in forked tongues of snakes watching their dreams like dream-flies and fireflies inside a glass jar of the psychedelic high-power intensity of mornings after black-outs and hangover inducing late nights of laughter and music combination of seven frequencies in seventeen octaves sung in my throat my voice of a box of buttons and that is all there is till the leaves turn brown like that Simon and Garfunkel song that once played in my room all the time beside beaches when I walked watching moonrise and till then when it is the next time when I busy myself I think I should just sit quiet in a corner of an old room where the moon always rises at the windows to think about the next very big endless story to shout out into the ears of the world till then when it is the next time when I busy myself to say something, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye