A couple of hours before midnight, the guitars started plucking their own strings. A man was singing from somewhere deep down in his stomach. Following him, another voice rose and it was that of a woman. I had returned home from a long, pointless drill. Soon after that, the man ran away and the woman changed and so did her voice. The guitars broke and got replaced with drums and echoes. I made myself a bowl of hot soup and drank half and threw the rest of it. I ate something that I cannot remember now. However much I worked on it, I just couldn’t keep the insects out for long. They always found a way. They danced around me, sat on my hands, sipped my blood. They were leading better, more peaceful lives than I. The home looked fresh but only for a couple of days. After that, I always forgot and I didn’t care about how it looked. Another man started singing, and this time, he had a banjo sticking out of his windpipe. After a minute of hearing, any song became old.
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