Urinal brainwashing

You will have a bad night. You will have a bad night.

Saturday morning

At home in a happy jumble of towels and clothes. Clean white-fitted sheets are folded and undone and then rolled like lashes of woollen fleece in big barrel-arm motions. An amused muttering of "I didn't do a very good job of that", and his trailing boyish giggle. There is a fresh portent of winter outside. There are fresh smh articles on his table in fresh ink smudging paper, and there is the vestige jitter and chatter in his mind. He jumps on his bed to reach *that* one, ahhh, and rolls a flurry of hands to sit a lone pearl of sock in his palm. He smiles. Irridescent music paints slapping waveforms in arches around his room. Cellos string installations to duck under and marvel at. He keeps rolling clothes like cliches, and it is a suprisingly homely and satisfying portrayal of ease; like a moment in "Archibald" creativity he'd bet; like sipping coffee and dabbling paint. It is a Saturday morning :)

To absorb self-introspection

Shining creases and metallic folds are laid - arranged - to sound. Connoisseurs babble streams of words and fidget meaningless motions with hands. Insecure patrons flick irritable glances at outspoken critics. "Oh dear, that's harsh; Almost tooo harsh". They censure an artist who wearily waited for the appreciating audience to catch up, but he went home a long time ago. No one smiles at the irony of the contrast; dull minds and reflective brilliance. No one snickers at the cleverness of a piece of folded foil reflecting an audience grappling to understand their projected reflection in a real reflection metaphor.